


The Ghosts of Blackthorn Hall

by linoresearch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Gothic, Jane Eyre fusion, M/M, Romance, The writing is supposed to be way over the top and purple, This is a pastiche of a Victorian novel, Victorian, the beginning is the worst bit but it gets a tad less ridiculous as it goes along
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 94,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linoresearch/pseuds/linoresearch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1843 Castiel Milton leaves his life of quiet faith and duty to take up employment as tutor to the young ward of one Mr Dean Winchester, at Blackthorn Hall. Set deep among the Yorkshire moors, Blackthorn is a place of mysteries – a wild place, where pale faces appear at the windows, and mad women laugh in the night. Castiel is drawn to the enigmatic Master of Blackthorn and they form an attachment neither of them expected. But there are secrets hidden behind Blackthorn's stone walls, truths that threaten to destroy their fragile happiness, as they are forced to confront the ghosts of their past. This is a Jane Eyre/SPN fusion AU, written for the Dean/Castiel Big Bang 2012. </p><p> </p><p>If you enjoy this story there is now a short a follow up fic posted called 'A Night at Hyde Place.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: A massive thank you azrastiel for the amazing art, I encourage you to go take a look (azrastiel.livejournal.com). Thank you to my beta reader, the non-fandom Evol77. Also a massive thanks to Mrs C-P, for her fabulous, and free, proof-reading services.
> 
> And big thank you to the DCBB mods for their mad mod skills. 
> 
> About the story: This AU is based on Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, but also incorporates elements from other gothic novels. I have tried where possible to keep things historically accurate, but it was not always possible. I found it necessary to use some modern words and phraseology to keep people as in character as possible while still fitting them into the Jane Eyre inspired roles. I apologise in advance for the French - I don't speak more than a word or two myself and had to rely on google translate to do the job for me. This is my first ever long work of fiction, and my first ever AU, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Part 1**

**Tuesday 12 th of September, 1843**

 

 

 

****

 

It had rained all day.  It was a mean sticky type of rain that drifted in the breeze, rather than falling straight down like honest rain should. To the passengers that shivered away the miles inside the old post-chaise, the drops appeared possessed of sentience, as they sought and found the best ways to increase the travellers’ discomfort.

To pass the time between town, village and hamlet, they commiserated with one another, cursing the weather and their own bad luck for being caught in it. A chorus of complaint, accompanied by the percussion of the descending rain, the clatter of horse shoes on stone and dirt, and the regular creak of wheels spinning in rusted metal housings, as they ate up the distance and the hours, beneath their heavy tread.

One passenger, among the fractious group, showed little inclination to join the concert of discontent. To the chagrin of his companions Mr Castiel Milton endured the hardships of the long journey with placid indifference. His attitude was so constant, and his blank expression so unchanging, that half of his companions perceived it as haughty disdain, while the other half suspected his faculties were sadly impaired. Happily, neither was the case, but he gave his companions no evidence to the contrary. Attempts to draw him into conversation were met with monosyllabic responses and a mildly confused frown. Eventually they came to a silent, yet unanimous, decision that it was better to leave him to himself and to whatever entertainment he garnered from staring, unblinking, out the mud spattered half-light at the dim world beyond.

For his part Castiel was relieved when they finally stopped asking him questions. His reserve was never intended to snub or offend; he was simply not a talkative person. He never had been. He did not feel the need that other people clearly did to clutter up the quiet of empty spaces with nonsense just to make a noise. He would talk if there was something to say, if he had something useful to contribute, or when he was truly interested in finding out the answer to a question. But he found the meaningless formality of small talk baffling and more than a little absurd. Besides he had learnt long ago that silence was preferable to saying the wrong thing, or speaking at the wrong time. The hard training of early childhood was not lightly thrown off, the lessons etched indelibly on his personality, though the bruises were long gone. 

The discomforts of the road did not bother Castiel the way they bothered the other passengers who griped and complained. It was true that the air was cool, but that was only to be expected on a mid-September day; it was not actually cold. The dampness inside the coach was unpleasant, but what did it really matter in the long run? The journey would be over sooner or later and anything could be endured so long as there was an end in sight. He even found he rather liked the sound of the rain; it had been his only constant companion since he had set out on the journey. It skittered against the hard shell of the carriage, soothing and surrounding him, drumming a soft beat as he moved forward to a new future and new possibilities.

 Raindrops tracked like tears down the outside of the glass that Castiel gazed through, pulling the colour from the world as they went, smearing and softening a landscape painted in shades of grey, washing it clean and making it new. This was what Castiel wanted. This was what the journey was all about – a fresh canvas where he could paint a new life, a different sort of life to the only one he had so far known.

***

Castiel could not explain what motivating force was behind his sudden need to uproot himself. He had been content more or less; though perhaps content was not the right word, resigned was probably more precise. His had been a life shaped by circumstance; the early death of his parents had left him wholly dependent on the generosity of an uncaring uncle with a ready anger, and ever ready fists. At just six years old, following a serious bout of illness, which to his uncle’s great dismay, Castiel managed to survive, he was packed off to St Ethelwold’s school for boys and there he had remained ever since. First as a student and then, with no fortune, no prospects, and no family or friends to call on for assistance, he had stayed on as a teacher. 

St Ethelwold’s was a church school populated by quiet blank-eyed children, left there because their guardians either could not or would not send them somewhere better. It was austere, highly regimented, and so cold in winter that the boys had to break the ice that formed on their basins overnight before they could wash their faces with tiny trembling hands. However, despite the hardships, the teachers were not cruel and the education was good. It was a place where a boy like Castiel, already possessed of strong faith and a willingness to obey commands without complaint, could find a place and something resembling peace.

It was a peace that ended abruptly some twenty-five years later when Castiel had awoken with pressure in his head, the lingering lightning flash of a fever-dream, and an overwhelming sense of discontent, of restlessness, and a tight tugging pull that started behind his ribs. At first he thought it might be a passing malady, but instead of fading, it only increased as time wore on, demanding his attention and a resolution, as it pulsed in his chest and swirled in his stomach, spreading and diffusing outwards cell by cell until it claimed his whole body. Though unshaped and abstract there was one thing about it that Castiel recognised; this strange force, this energy and need to move and change had been placed in him by God, and therefore Castiel would follow without hesitation, wherever it led.

The newspaper had been abandoned in the common room. It was out of date, tattered, and its pages were yellowed and crisp to the touch. It did not matter in the slightest; within minutes of opening it Castiel knew what he must do to satisfy the sensation that inhabited his chest. He drank in every inky black word from the paper and let them roll around inside his head until they formed fragile new thoughts. An unknown world was written out for him there, across the pages of The Times; the onward march of the railways; the agitation of mill workers; great engineering works of the age; trouble in the colonies; the summer exhibition at the Royal Society – things that stirred his interest and lit up the corners of his mind, where before there had been only cobwebs and duty.

 The plan was solidified almost as soon as it was thought and within a fortnight it was arranged, paid for, and out there for the world – or England at least – to see. On the page next to Mrs Harlow’s Wonder Water – an all round cure for ailments of the stomach, and above bold text declaring ‘Cope Bros & Co, the finest American tobacco products in London,’ was Castiel’s advertisement. Just a few lines of plain text on the rough grained paper and Castiel’s future hung from the edge of each crisply printed word.

A letter arrived addressed to him a few weeks later. It was written on thick cream-coloured paper in an elegant looping hand, from one Mrs E. Harvelle who was, ‘pleased to offer the position of tutor in the household of Mr Dean Winchester of Blackthorn Hall, to undertake the education and care of one male child aged seven years.’ The terms were more than agreeable, and Castiel accepted without pause.  Within the month he had set out on the road to the North and did not once look back with regret on anything he had left behind.

***

The journey proved long, even though the newfangled railway lines that criss-crossed the country like metal veins gobbled up most of the miles – and oh, how Castiel had loved the railway. The blur of action and rush of wind, the scent of the coal fire that left his skin peppered with tiny flakes of ash and caught at the back of his throat until he could almost taste the furnace at the heart of the engine. It was new and wonderful and it felt like freedom as it moved him across the surface of his expanding world. But it had soon become apparent that his destination was more remote than Castiel had imagined it to be, and he had spent the whole day on the mail coach as it trundled along muddy country roads that twisted and turned, over hill and through dale, until Castiel no longer had any idea where they were, or even what direction they were travelling in. He had fallen into a reverie by the time the driver pulled up the horses with a rattle of horseshoes on cobbles.

“Crossthorpe!” The shout from the driver came down from the box above them, each vowel sanded off at the edges by a thick local accent.

There was a brief flurry of activity all around. Two passengers alighted and a lone female traveller embarked shaking out her voluminous black skirts to fill one side of the coach. The precious cargo was thrown down to the post office men waiting on the ground. They stood with their arms outstretched and their shirt sleeves rolled up, their skin wet and shiny from the rain, ready to receive the latest load from Her Majesty’s Royal Mail. Hessian sacks packed with penny post letters and parcels, carefully wrapped in paper and cloth, all handled with careful respect. New packages and post bags were drawn up on to the roof and lashed there securely. Finally everything was covered with a rough waxed cloth for protection from the inclement weather during the onward journey.

Castiel recognised the name of the village as the last one on the map before Blackthorn Hall. From what Castiel could see, it looked more like a market town than a village. There was plenty of activity and people were going about their business, despite the ever present rain, weather that would have kept everyone at St Ethelwold’s hidden behind their doors, for fear of rheumatism and influenza. He had heard that folk from the north were hardy and industrious and the evidence of it was pleasing.

Perhaps this was not the industrial or cultural nexus he might have imagined when he had picked up the newspaper and been awakened to the wider world that existed beyond the walls of the school. But the people looked lively, there was a church tower rising solid and reassuring above the rooftops in the distance, and a little clutch of shops fringed the square where the coach had stopped, close to a group of crumbling stone crosses – Anglo-Saxon from the look of them – from which the village clearly took its name. Even if that proved to be the sum of the place it was already more interesting than St Ethelwold’s had ever been.

The coachman gee'd on the horses a few minutes later and they drove out of the village. The rain was starting to ease and the cloud cover thinned enough to allow pillars of wan sunlight to break through, highlighting the passing country in patches. The days were starting to draw in with the approach of winter but there was still time enough left in the day for Castiel to get an impression of the place that would be his new home. In the thin light, the moorlands were leeched of colour, and there was only the merest hint of brown and green against the grey of shale and limestone that jutted from the steep earthy hillsides at unforgiving angles. The high peaks in the distance were shrouded in cloud, hidden from view, like a mystery that Castiel longed to have revealed.

“I do hope we get beyond Blue Moor before dark.” The woman’s voice dragged Castiel’s attention abruptly back to what was passing inside the carriage. He looked over at her and she was gracious enough to spare him a glance and a shy smile, though it was obvious she had been addressing the other passenger who rode with them in the coach.

“You’ve heard the stories then I see?” It was Mr Crabtree speaking this time. He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner as the good lady’s eyes widened and shone excitedly. Mr Crabtree was an older gentleman with a steel grey and impressively bushy moustache that covered a large portion of his face. There was an impish glint in his eye that made him look considerably younger than the years etched in lines around his eyes indicated. The lady, Castiel had not caught her name, but he presumed she was a widow judging by the dark colour of her gown, nodded enthusiastically. The action made her dark curls bounce with alarming energy around her face, and called to mind an image of Medusa Castiel had once seen in a Greek text at St Ethelwold’s. “Perhaps we should not talk about such things in front of Mr Milton.” Mr Crabtree paused and threw a quick wink in Castiel’s direction. “He’s on his way to stay at Blackthorn Hall and we don’t want to scare him off before he’s even settled do we?”

The lady made a little gasping noise then attempted to cover her open mouth by holding a flimsy, embroidered, and practically useless handkerchief to her lips. She looked horrified and for the first time during the entire journey, Castiel was interested in the conversation.

“If there are stories about the Hall, I would like to hear them,” he said looking directly at the lady. She pulled the little handkerchief away from her pink mouth and smiled approvingly.

“One should always be prepared and have all the available information when one visits a new place don’t you think? It does you credit, Mr Milton.” She spoke seriously and blushed a rosy pink as she looked up at Castiel through dark eyelashes. He wondered, and not for the first time during the journey, why ladies all seemed to pull that face at him, he did not think she had graced Mr Crabtree with such a look even though he was doing his best to entertain her. Mr Crabtree and the lady looked at each other for a moment until Mr Crabtree nodded for her to go ahead and tell the tale. She smiled and took a breath before she began.

“Well, Mr Milton, for all the grey of its ramparts, Blackthorn has had a pretty colourful history and those Winchesters...” She paused and sucked in a whistling breath through her teeth. “Half savage from what I hear, even if they are the richest family in the county.” She enacted a little shiver to illustrate her disgust, and then dropped her voice down to a whisper, getting more animated now she had her audience’s attention. “They say it’s haunted.” She bit her bottom lip as though she had accidentally cursed. “They say that people have seen all kinds of strange goings on there at all hours of the day and night. That people are bundled into the house in secret and are never seen or heard from again! My cousin’s wife’s friend has a maid whose mother used to help out in the kitchens there.” She nodded as if that was proof enough of the veracity of her claims. “She said that old John Winchester murdered his wife, right in front of his own poor children too!” She pursed her lips for a moment and frowned. “But then again, the youngest would only have been a baby back then,” she considered, “so he probably escaped the worst of it, but the elder, the current Mr Winchester, they say he saw the whole thing, so it’s no wonder he grew up all wrong.” She shook her head sadly, resulting in more bobbing of ringlets and rustling of satin ribbons. “Now they say her ghost walks the passages at night, weeping and wailing, pulling at her hair and I know not what, and anyone who stays there can get no sleep for the noise of her grief.”

“My goodness! My dear...” Mr Crabtree interrupted. “That is quite a story.”

“It’s not a story, Mr Crabtree, everyone around here knows about it.” She looked between Mr Crabtree and Castiel with wide-eyed surprise at their doubt. “And that’s not the end of it. It drove old John Winchester mad from the guilt and a few years ago he murdered himself. They said it was an accident, but young Mr Winchester never did produce a body for anyone to see. It was all very suspicious and I shouldn’t trust him no matter how handsome people say he is, and I pity the poor woman who ends up mistress of Blackthorn.” She finished the tale in a rush, a little breathless from the scandal of it, her shiny little tongue darting out as if to savour the remains of the delightful words that clung to her lips.

Castiel did not find the tale as amusing or entertaining as she evidently did, but given that he almost perpetually wore an expression that looked much like a scowl, it was unlikely that she noticed his disapproval. The story was clearly no more than just that, a story, invented by those of lower rank and lesser fortune to sate their jealousy. Mr Crabtree, noting Castiel’s silence and seeing it as the censure it so clearly was, made a valiant attempt to rectify the situation.

“What a very colourful tale! I think Mr Milton might find the reality of life at Blackthorn Hall a little dull in comparison,” Mr Crabtree said. He turned and gave Castiel his full attention for a moment. “Though I have not long lived in the area myself, I have heard these stories before, but I have also heard many good things about the Hall and the Winchester family as well.”

Castiel waved it aside with a sweep of his hand. “Don’t concern yourself, Mr Crabtree, I care little for gossip.” He perhaps spoke with a little more vitriol than he intended, but Mr Crabtree moved in quickly at the first sign of a small pout from the lady.

“When I mentioned the stories, Mr Milton, I was, of course, referring to the legend of the Beast of Blue Moor.” Castiel felt an uncharacteristic curl of satisfaction at the gasp this elicited from the lady opposite, as the colour drained from her face. The lady fumbled in her reticule then withdrew a small blue glass bottle of smelling salts. She wafted it under her nose and inhaled in an exaggerated display of distress, as was the habit of delicate ladies.

“Fear not good lady,” said Mr Crabtree who clearly had some taste for the dramatic. “I shall not linger on the subject any longer than is necessary. Suffice to say, Mr Milton, there have long been tales around these parts of a huge beast, half man half animal, which roams the wilds around Blue Moor at night.” There was another whimper from the lady. “And it’s said that any unsuspecting passerby who is caught out on Blue Moor after dark is never seen again. At least not until many months later, when their bones are found scattered about and chewed clean, with huge teeth marks on them.” Mr Crabtree let his voice waver and drop off into silence on the last word and the story hung there in the stillness between the three of them for a moment.

“Blackthorn Hall!” the driver shouted, with a loud bang of his fist on the roof of the coach. All three occupants flinched at the sudden noise. The lady cried out in alarm and pressed her hand to her chest, and Castiel wondered if she was going to faint. Mr Crabtree laughed nervously for a moment before making his polite farewells. The lady attempted the same but was too overcome to manage more than a small wave and a shallow nod of her frighteningly coiffured head.

“Blackthorn Hall!” the driver yelled again impatiently. “If you’re getting out get on with it,” he huffed in his gruff tone as the horses whinnied and skittered nervously. “I don’t want to be crossing that damn moor in the dark!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

**Tuesday 12 th of September, 1843.**

                               

The rattle and creak of the post-chaise faded quickly, as Castiel watched it disappear around a sharp bend in the road and he was left alone, with nothing but the sound of the wind as it rushed downhill from the moors above, and the rough cawing of crows as they called each other home to roost with fractious voices. Castiel picked up the travel case that had been unceremoniously dumped on the roadside between shallow muddy puddles. It was not heavy, and he wondered what it said about him that he had lived for more than thirty years with so little to show for it – nothing but a few sets of clothes, a few books, some paintings and sketches. He cared little, even for these meagre possessions. The only thing he owned that had true meaning for him was the silver cross that hung on a short chain around his neck, its presence warm and comforting and constant, not only a symbol of his faith but a memento of the parents he had never known.

Slate grey clouds rolled slowly overhead as Castiel looked down the long approach to Blackthorn Hall. He had been distracted by his travelling companions for the last few miles and this was his first real glimpse of the place. He had to tilt his head to see between the thick black bars of the imposing and viciously spiked iron gates that blocked the way from the road. With the sun sinking below the craggy horizon the light was fading fast. It belied the early hour and cast the Hall into premature shadow, where it sat in a shallow valley.

Blackthorn was a large building, but it had something of a hunched look about it, as though it squatted in a space where it did not entirely fit. It looked uncomfortable in its surroundings, uneasy among the formal gardens that flanked it on both sides and extended outward, before being swallowed by trees or giving way to the natural sweep of the moors. Ramparts ran along the top of the structure, but they were uneven, with gaps here and there, like a broken toothed smile. The incongruity of it was only increased by the tall tower that rose above the parapets towards the west of the building. It was old, no doubt a relic of some ancient structure, from a time when arrow slits were defensive necessity rather than a decorative frivolity. It was clear the Hall had been rebuilt and extended many times over the centuries, lending it an air of eccentricity – suddenly the stories he had heard did not seem so outrageous after all.

There was a small side entrance made of the same heavy iron as the gate and worked with an ugly circular motif. It swung open easily at a touch and Castiel started down the path towards the Hall; it was not an inconsiderable distance. The rain softened earth dragged at Castiel’s feet so that he sank a little into the mud with each step. Far to the left, where the garden merged with woodland, there was a brief flash of something pale. It moved away, quick and silent on the sodden loam, before it disappeared beneath dripping branches and the golden brown of autumn-burnt leaves. Castiel squinted after it, trying to follow the movement, but whatever it was had already slipped into the darkness. A fox screamed its uncanny call somewhere close by and it raised the hair on the back of Castiel’s neck; he had always found it disturbing how much it sounded like a human in pain. Shivering he walked on a little faster in the gloom.

The Hall was in darkness. There was neither the flicker of a candle nor the shade of a movement in the windows as Castiel approached the front of the house. It was disconcerting, and a shadow of a doubt crept into his mind as he stood before the heavy oak doors. Another high pitched screech rang out a little further off and Castiel shook his head to rid himself of a sudden sense of disquiet. A thick strap attached to a heavy bell dangled beside the entrance, he pulled it once to make his presence known. The hollow echo of it beyond the door did nothing to dispel the suspicion that he was alone here, that the Hall was no more than a glamour, or a trick of the fading light in a tired traveller's eye, or perhaps a dream that he would wake from to find himself in his hard old bed at St Ethelwold’s. He was not usually prone to such fancies and he pushed them away quickly when he heard a shuffling sound approach from the other side of the door.

A light appeared in a window to his left, it followed a flickering path across one window and then the next. It disappeared only to be replaced by the loud creak and complaint of a key turning in a lock that was reluctant to cooperate, followed by the groan of old iron hinges as one of the doors swung open. Castiel relaxed a fraction and tried to assume an affable expression for his first encounter with a Blackthorn resident, which for him was no easy feat.

"Is it Mr Milton?" asked a voice from the shadowed recess. A woman moved slowly into view. She held a candle aloft before her, moving it closer to Castiel as though she wanted to get a good look at the new arrival before she would allow him to cross the threshold.

He bobbed a small bow as he had been taught as a child. “Yes. I’m Castiel Milton. Are you Mrs Harvelle?”

She smiled at Castiel’s awkward attempt at civility – it was a long time since he had been in company and he suspected his manners were somewhat outdated – and it made her eyes shine even in the poor light. There was something instantly affable about Mrs Harvelle and Castiel realised that his lips had tilted unconsciously to mirror her smile.

“That I am,” she replied as she opened the door wider and beckoned him inside. “We were glad you accepted the position. Mr Winchester was most particular about finding a tutor with plenty of experience, but it seems not many with your qualifications would be willing to hide themselves away out here for long. I was starting to despair of ever finding anyone suitable when I saw your advertisement, Mr Milton, and I don’t mind saying, you really are something of a godsend.” 

She led the way through the Hall as she talked. It was near dark outside now and darker still inside the thick stone walls where no glimmer of moonlight could enter. Castiel looked around as they went, eager to see his new home as Mrs Harvelle ushered him along, but all was still and silent around them and he could pick up no more than a hint of the place from the small patch of light cast by the candle Mrs Harvelle carried aloft. The Hall it seemed, would only show itself to him in parts for now, the corner of a painting here and the side aspect of an ornament there, was all that Castiel was allowed as they progressed from room to room. He contented himself with the knowledge that the morning light would reveal Blackthorn to him soon enough.

Mrs Harvelle chattered pleasantly, as they moved through the dark spaces between doorways. “Mr Winchester always insists on the best for young Ben,” she said as she exerted a gentle pressure on Castiel’s elbow to direct him up a flight of stairs. Each step creaked underfoot as they climbed.

“Ben? Is that Mr Winchester’s son?” Castiel realised for the first time that the child he was here to supervise and instruct had never been named in any of their correspondence about the position – he had been so determined to accept, that it had somehow been overlooked.

Mrs Harvelle laughed. “Oh, Lord no!” Castiel was at a loss as to why that was amusing, it was after all the most logical conclusion. “No,” she repeated. “Mr Winchester doesn’t have children, I think he’s still a little young and... unsettled for that sort of thing. Ben is his ward. Benjamin Braeden. He’s only seven years old poor little thing. French too,” she added with a little shake of her head as though the boy’s nationality was a burden in itself. “He was left to Mr Winchester’s care a few years ago. We tried to place him at school in France near where he was born but he didn’t take to it. So he was brought here and that’s why you’re with us, Mr Milton. He’s a bright boy and I’m sure you’ll find him a good student.” Mrs Harvelle continued to talk as they climbed another smaller flight of stairs. At the top she turned abruptly and headed down a narrow corridor, it was panelled on both sides with dark wood and dotted with small paintings, portraits for the most part from what Castiel could see, a succession of pale faces that loomed from the shadows one after another before falling back into black as they moved by.   

When Mrs Harvelle finally stopped, they had journeyed so far into the reaches of the Hall that Castiel was sure he would not be able to find his way back alone. Keys rattled on the chatelaine that hung at Mrs Harvelle’s waist as she looked through the shiny collection for the correct one. She made a small triumphant noise in the back of her throat as she found it and unlocked the door. She pushed it open and motioned for Castiel to precede her into the room.

“And this will be your room while you’re with us. I hope you’ll find it comfortable and suitable for your needs. I put you here, close to Ben’s rooms. I thought that would be best,” she said absently as she lit extra candles using the flame she carried, pushing away the last of the shadows into the corners of the chamber.

Castiel looked around with approval. It was a modest sized room but there was a wooden framed bed, rather larger and grander than the one he had been used to in the teachers’ dormitory at St Ethelwold’s, and it was hung all around with thick red curtains to keep out the chill during the winter months. There was also a desk, some drawers, a small wardrobe and a couple of comfortable looking chairs. Everything had a slightly rough and time worn look, but it seemed sturdy enough, and Castiel would hardly expect a lowly tutor to be provided with anything better. It was just the basics by most people’s standards but it was more than sufficient. A small fire crackled behind the grate in a plain tiled hearth. It was warm and it was comfortable, and he needed no more than that.

“This will do very well, thank you Mrs Harvelle,” he said.

Mrs Harvelle meanwhile had returned to stand by the door while Castiel set his case on the floor near the bed. “Please call me Ellen,” she said. “We don’t stand upon ceremony in this house. I don’t know how it is where you’re from, but out here there isn’t much call to be overly worried about manners and such like.” She tilted her head and looked up at him for a few seconds and Castiel got the distinct feeling that he was being examined, that she was waiting for him to say or do something. “Even Mr Winchester prefers to be called by his Christian name you know, when it’s just the family at home.”

“Then you must call me Castiel,” he replied without hesitation.

Ellen’s smile widened. “Well Castiel, you’ve had a long journey, so I shall leave you to yourself for tonight. I had the maid bring some supper up for you.” She nodded toward a tray covered with a white cloth set on the writing desk under a small latticed window. “And there’s hot water for you in the jug. The maid will let herself in first thing in the morning to set the fire and then I will call for you at around eight to take you down to breakfast. I’ll show you the rest of the Hall and introduce you to little Ben after that.” Ellen turned to go but then faltered and turned again. “One last thing, Castiel.” She stepped back towards him, holding out the key to the room. He reached out for it and she pressed it into his upturned palm. The metal was cool against his skin, and for a moment her smile fell and she looked solemn as she folded his fingers closed over it. “We prefer to keep our doors locked at night. It’s nothing to worry about just a tradition we like to keep to.”

“Of course,” he nodded. It was not an unreasonable request and he was more than willing to adapt to the traditions of the Hall. It was only then that Castiel realised there was something important that Mrs Harvelle, Ellen, had not mentioned. “Is Mr Winchester away from home at the moment then? I would very much have liked to speak with him about his preferences for Ben’s education.”

“Yes, he is. Unfortunately Mr Winchester spends a lot of time away from Blackthorn; the family business takes him all over the place. He’s been away since the spring and we don’t expect him back until after the New Year now.”

“Oh, I see.” Before she moved away, Ellen reached out and squeezed his hand as though she could read the disappointment on his face, though he was sure he looked and sounded the same as ever. “And I understand there is no Mrs Winchester at present?” He had heard enough during his journey to be sure this was the case, but it did no harm to check, after all the lady on the coach did not seem to be entirely in possession of the facts in everything she said.  

Ellen looked back at him over her shoulder, there was a slight frown squeezing a line between her eyebrows. “I’m sorry to say there has been no lady of the house since Mr Winchester’s mother passed away,” she said at length, then sighed. “I’m sorry that Dean... Mr Winchester is not home to welcome you to the Hall himself, but we’ll manage as best we can ‘til he returns from his travels. In the mean time, there’s plenty to keep us all occupied. The months will fly by, you mark my words. And you can speak to me about Ben’s lessons until Mr Winchester returns.” She looked at him quizzically and Castiel felt like an insect pinned down under a scientist's gaze. “When I wrote and told him you’d accepted the position, he asked me a lot of questions about you. He’s never taken much of an interest in any of the other staff that I’ve taken on in his absence. I wonder very much what you will make of each other when the time comes.” She roused herself from her contemplation with a soft “hmmm” before she bid him goodnight and left the room. The click of the lock sliding back into place was followed by the faint echo of Ellen’s footsteps as she retreated back down the corridor.

For a few minutes, Castiel simply walked around the room looking at everything and letting the events of the day wash over him, until the rumble of his empty stomach became too insistent to disregard. He sat by the fire to eat the supper that had been provided. It was simple food, a few cheeses, cold meat, and a couple of hefty chunks of bread; it was good quality – better than he was used to. Castiel did not know why that surprised him. He was part of a wealthy household now and would no doubt share, at least in part, some of the luxuries that money afforded.

It was still relatively early and Castiel decided to unpack his case before giving in to the lure of the comfortable looking bed. He pottered about the room in the fire and candle light finding homes for his belongings, putting books on shelves and papers in drawers as the flames jumped and flickered so that the shadows moved around him and wavered in the corner of his sight. He unpacked his clothes last of all and laid them out on the bed before moving them to the wardrobe. The whites, browns and blacks of his plain serviceable clothes looked dull against the red of the bed’s curtains and the coloured wools of the blankets that covered the deep mattress. Castiel cared not for fashion or finery but he hoped he would not stand out as too drab in this new environment.

The wardrobe was set back against the wall near the head of the bed. As he pulled open the doors and light permeated its dark innards, something else colourful caught Castiel’s eye. Down on the base board there was a small bird, or to be more precise, the remains of a small bird. It was open-eyed and still, with its beak slightly parted, as if its life had suddenly ceased, mid-song. The green-yellow colour of it was picked out sharply against the dark of the wood beneath the little body, but even that looked muted compared to the splash of red brown across its breast, where blood was crusting and turning dark. Castiel crouched down to examine the strange find closer. The rest of the room was spotless, and the maids had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to clean and air the chamber before his arrival. It seemed impossible that they would have missed it, but here it was, and he could not deny the evidence of his own eyes. Perhaps the Hall kept a cat that had slunk in unobserved to finish off its prize.

Castiel used the cloth that had covered his meal to pick up the little corpse; he carried the delicate cargo to the window, opened the latch and let the tiny body of the green-finch fall from the cloth. It tumbled down out of sight between the leaves of the ivy that climbed and clung to the stonework and brushed up against the glass – he would trust nature to do its work in reclaiming the poor deceased thing. In the morning he would ask whether the Hall kept cats in the house. Castiel was fond of cats, but he did not relish the idea of finding dead things in his room every night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

**Saturday 2 nd December, 1843.** 

It took more than a few days for Castiel to explore the Hall in its entirety, and even longer to be able to navigate around it without taking a wrong turn or having to retrace his steps. Blackthorn was a maze of a house, its narrow corridors veered off suddenly and in unexpected directions, and there were rooms half hidden in shadowy nooks just waiting to be discovered and explored. The eccentricity of the outside of Blackthorn was easily matched within the walls. It seemed that every generation had added or renovated something, and now it stood like a memorial to each successive Master of Blackthorn. All had bequeathed some permanent mark of their own time, fashioned from stone and wood, as the Hall passed from father to son, moving forward while the builders’ bones turned to dust and memories deep beneath churchyard dirt.

The alterations had stopped with the death of Mary Winchester. There was no evidence of improvements by the current incumbent, despite his reputed wealth. As Castiel began to know the Hall a little better, he began to see that the lack of modernization stemmed from a desire to keep the Hall as a home, a place of constancy, somewhere familiar to return to after too long away. Others used their homes as places to display wealth and consequence and the fashions of the day – Castiel thought it a good sign that the Winchesters clearly did not care for such frivolous and transitory things.

The people of Blackthorn were friendly and obliging. The informality was a little odd to begin with, but Ellen had given Castiel fair warning, so he endeavoured to learn everyone’s Christian name and to call them by it. The only part of this new life that gave Castiel cause for concern was a rather laissez-faire attitude to religious observance, which seemed to stem directly from the Winchesters and had trickled down to the whole household. Church was attended each Sunday to avoid causing scandal in the local community, but it was treated more like an opportunity to exchange gossip at the church gates, than to join in collective worship.

Though he would balk at determining how others should behave, Castiel found it difficult to understand. His own faith was strong, and he felt it like a living thing coiled inside him that echoed in all he did, including the decision to move to Blackthorn. It had shaped his life, given him strength in adversity, taught him patience to endure any trial, and it gave him hope and a sense of belonging to something bigger than himself when the world around him felt too small. Ellen had told him that Dean was not religious and that he was happy to let his household worship in whatever way they deemed appropriate, so Castiel kept his own council on the matter, made his prayers in private and visited the church at Crossthorpe whenever he could.

Such relaxed attitudes to religious observance and the informality of the household was unusually progressive, yet the relative isolation of the Hall and the ongoing absence of its owner meant that the Hall was also quiet and a little old fashioned in many ways. Like the fabric of the building, it was a strange juxtaposition of old and new, formal and informal, and all Castiel could decide, on balance, was that the people of Blackthorn Hall were as uniquely assembled as the architecture.

If he was to be entirely honest about it, life at Blackthorn was not as Castiel had imagined it might be. There was little to be had in the way of excitement or exposure to the modern world and grand new ideas, but it was very different from his sombre life of faith and duty at St Ethelwold’s and overall, Castiel was content with the new life that God had blessed him with. The restless sensation, that had plagued him, abated quickly after his arrival, although it did not stop entirely; and every now and then he was distracted from his work or woken from his sleep by the familiar pull in his chest, though it was now muted and easily ignored.

The reason Castiel was at Blackthorn Hall was, of course, as tutor to Dean Winchester’s young ward and he was pleased to discover that Ellen was right, and that Ben was as good a child as he had ever known. The boy was small for his age, had a head of thick dark hair, a round pink cheeked face, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and he spoke with a thick French accent. Ben was energetic and friendly, though perhaps a little too frivolous, with a tendency to favour fussing with toys over settling to his studies. He also appeared to believe that the liberal consumption of jam was a cure for all the world’s ills and therefore pursued it at every available opportunity. With the right encouragement, he proved a more than competent student and Castiel quickly grew fond of him.

There were days when Ben grumbled like any other child, when his spirits were low, and he stared resolutely out of the schoolroom window to the exclusion of everything else. Although Castiel could not be sure of the cause, he could imagine well enough that the child was still haunted by the loss of his mother, and on those days Castiel cleared away the books from the table and laid out charcoals instead. Whatever hardships Ben had experienced in his young life, whatever had prevented him from settling at school, most of the time he was happy and he was indulged to an almost faulty degree by everyone at the Hall.

To Castiel’s amazement, there persisted some general prejudice against the French in that out of the way part of the country, a rather outdated attitude nearly thirty years after Waterloo, but the servants seemed determined to view Ben’s heritage as something of an affliction. When the child dropped into French halfway through a sentence they looked at him with pitying eyes and shook their heads sympathetically as he babbled at them in his lyrical native tongue. Castiel had sought Ellen’s opinion on whether he should teach Ben in French, considering that the child might find the instruction easier that way. She looked aghast at the very suggestion and stammered out assurances that Mr Winchester was keen for Ben to improve his English.

Notwithstanding a few such quirks of character, Castiel liked Ellen a lot. She was the person, aside from his young charge, that he spent the most time with, particularly in the first few days of his residence when she had guided him through the routines of the house. Ellen was a widow. She had one daughter, of whom she was very proud, and who had recently left Blackthorn to work as a lady’s maid. She had been attached to the Hall and the Winchester family for most of her life. Castiel often spent evenings in her company and she regaled him with stories about the Hall – which according to her had played a major role in almost every important historical event that had taken place in England during the last five hundred years.

The histories were entertaining, but Castiel preferred it when Ellen talked about the Winchester family. Whenever she spoke of the Winchester brothers there was warmth in her voice and affection in her face, and Castiel felt as though he was caught up and pulled along by the ferocity of her regard for these unknown people. Ellen’s good opinion of the Winchesters only added to Castiel’s wish to meet the elusive Master of Blackthorn. Dean – as Ellen insisted on calling him – had been away from home since long before Castiel had arrived to take up his post, and the more he heard about him, good and bad, the more Castiel wished to put a face to the name. Whenever Castiel asked about the prospect of his return, Ellen would not be pressed on the matter, instead she waved Castiel away with a discomforted look, and muttered about how Dean’s business took him to all sorts of strange places and no one could ever guess when he would be back.

Castiel was an outsider at Blackthorn. He lacked the link of blood or the lifetime of loyalty to the family that was so marked among the rest of the household, and he was in no position to pursue the topic if Ellen was reluctant to discuss it with him. Unfortunately for Castiel, this only served to pique his interest even more and his hope that Dean would return to the hall only increased as the days and weeks went by.

The only reference Castiel had for his absentee employer was a dusty picture that hung on the wall in one of the second floor corridors. The portrait had been painted when Dean was just a child, a sturdy little boy with chubby limbs, sandy hair and a wide smile, balanced on the knee of his pretty blonde mother. The artist, whoever it was, had not been particularly skilful, but it was all Castiel had to go on and he found it difficult to reconcile this image of childish innocence with some of the more outrageous stories he had heard.

It came as something of a surprise then, when Ellen finally volunteered some of the family history without being prompted.

“I helped look after them,” Ellen started wistfully one evening apropos of nothing in particular. “I helped care for the boys after Mary died.” Castiel closed the book he had been reading and set it aside to give her his full attention. She was staring into the fire with a vaguely unfocussed look, seeing a past that was hidden somewhere between the coals and behind the flame.

It had been months since Castiel had arrived at Blackthorn and the seasons had turned once again.  The damp autumn drizzle had finally given way to the icy sleets and snows of winter and he could hear it in the background as it thumped and slithered wetly on the outside of the window panes. The small drawing room that Ellen favoured was snug, with the shutters closed against the drafts, but tonight she had decided to stave off any lingering chills by sampling some of the Hall’s supply of sweet wine. The alcohol had caused a slight flush on her face and throat and as it warmed her, it also loosened her tongue.

“How did she die?” Castiel asked, attempting to pick up the dangled thread of the conversation with as casual an air as possible. He was not entirely sure if it was the right thing to do, but he knew that Ellen would not tell any secrets, it would take a whole lot more than a glass of wine or two to influence Mrs Harvelle.

Ellen chuckled and it was a joyless sound. “I take it you’ve heard the gossip then?” Her expression was bleak and Castiel felt a momentary fear that he had gone too far in asking about it directly. He nodded and started to apologise, but Ellen cut him off with a wave of her hand and a shrug. “Despite what you might’ve heard, Castiel, there are no ghosts at Blackthorn.” There was something odd about the way she said the sentence, an odd emphasis that Castiel could not understand. “No matter what goes on outside, within these walls we are always safe.” She reached out and pressed the tips of her fingers against the wooden panelling. “No, no ghosts here.” She raised her head and met his gaze and Castiel could see water glistening at the corners of her eyes. “But there was a fire,” she added. “It started in the nursery when Sam was just a baby – not Ben’s rooms,” she said quickly. “Back then, the nursery was over in the west wing. It was rebuilt but no one goes there much now, you might have noticed.”

“Sam is Samuel? Dean’s brother?”

“Yes, sorry, Castiel,” she said with a little shake of her head. “I sometimes forget that you aren’t one of us. Yes he prefers to go by the name Sam.” Castiel nodded but stayed quiet, and let Ellen take her time with the story without interruption. “No one really knows exactly what happened that night or how the fire started, but start it did and Mary got trapped in it. It’s a miracle really that John – that’s the old Mr Winchester—and the boys and everyone else managed to get out. Poor Mary,” she added as she dabbed at her eyes, “she loved them all so much and they’d been so happy together.”

“How old was Dean when it happened?” Castiel could not help but ask. The image of the round faced child on Mary’s knee, smiling and happy and ignorant of what was to come, drifted into his mind and he could not shake the sense of unease it created. Castiel had never known his own parents, but he thought that it must somehow be worse to have a parent taken away, to have someone tangible to miss, instead of nothing but names on a scrap of paper.

“He can’t have been more than five years old at the time. It was a terrible night for everyone, just terrible,” she said shaking her head and closing her eyes for a moment against the memories. “You know at first we couldn’t find the little ones, and we all thought John had gone mad because he was shouting and cursing that he knew they’d gotten out, and he was screaming at us to find them. But thank the Lord he was right, one of the maids found Dean hiding at the edge of the garden under some brambles, just sitting there silently clutching the baby. He wasn’t even crying, just staring at the Hall and watching the smoke go up into the sky, and he was holding his little brother so tight, we had a hard time getting them apart. No one had seen him come out the front door, we think he must have climbed out of one of the windows, but no one could ever get him to talk about it.” She smiled a little forlornly at Castiel and he felt a flicker of shame at how the story fascinated rather than saddened him, as it probably should.

“That was when things changed at the Hall,” she said. “Poor John Winchester just couldn’t cope without Mary and couldn’t stand to be here without her. It wasn’t long until he left and took the little boys off with him to God only knows where. He sent letters to the old housekeeper and took on an estate manager, and all we were told was to keep the house running as usual, once the repairs were made. We all expected they would return eventually but they only came home a handful of times in fifteen years or more.” She stopped and swirled the dregs of her wine around the base of her glass, the red liquid shone as she held it up to the light.

“Were the boys at school then, all that time?” Castiel asked, thinking back with a slight shiver to his own cold childhood at St Ethelwold’s.

“Dean in a school,” Ellen looked amused at the very idea. “Lord no. I doubt there’s a school in England that could have held him for more than five minutes, if anywhere would have dared to take him. No. John kept the boys with him, dragging them about from place to place, buying up land, making deals here, there and everywhere.”

“It must have been interesting for them to see so much of the world while they were so young?”

Ellen made a huffing noise and ignored Castiel’s comment. Instead she continued her story. “Anyway, after many many years, they did come back, and goodness, I never saw anyone so changed in all my life,” she said, biting down on her thin bottom lip as it quivered like she was trying and failing to keep the words contained. “John was always going away, and when he was here, he was often in his cups and couldn’t be reasoned with. And the arguing! Castiel, you never heard anything like it, especially with Sam. In the end Dean convinced him to send Sam off to school. We all thought it was for the best and Sam did very well for himself there, worked hard and made friends – he’s in London now and is all set to go into the law. I think he wants to be an attorney...”

“And Dean?”

Ellen smiled for the first time in many minutes. “As you have probably... no, as you have definitely heard by now, Dean was quite wild when he first came back. He’s a fine young man and he caused quite a stir among all the young ladies hereabouts,” she laughed. “He might seem a little rough at times, but he has a good heart and he fell easily into John’s place running the Hall and taking care of the family business when his father couldn’t do it anymore. He always made sure that Sam was secure and cared for, and now he is doing the same for Ben too.” She stopped to pour another glass of wine from a chipped old decanter that sat on a table within easy reach.

“Ellen, what happened to John Winchester?”

Ellen gave Castiel a long steady look. She sighed again and turned her face back to the fire, and for a while the only sounds were the soft thud of sleet on the window and the pop-crackle-hiss of the fire as a few wayward drops fell from the chimney and evaporated in the flames. “It happened while he was away from the Hall, up in the north somewhere” she said quietly. “He fell from his horse while he was hunting a stag or something like that. I don’t know anymore about it, but both the boys were with him when it happened.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said and he meant it.

“I know you are, Castiel, thank you. But it’s been what... four, no... five years,” she said, looking up at him with a wan smile. “They buried him next to Mary in Crossthorpe churchyard. Since Dean had already taken over most of the running of the place by then, it didn’t really change much apart from officially giving Dean the role of Master, and thereby making him the most sought after bachelor in the county for all that people complain about his rough manners and strange jokes.” She laughed and looked at him from the side of her eye, her eyebrow raised in a saucy manner. “You’ll see that for yourself when he returns,” she teased.

“Is he coming home soon then?” Castiel said, perhaps a little more eagerly than was called for. He thought about the painting again and the little boy that was all pink cheeks and green eyes, and he wondered what those eyes would look like now, if they would still shine with barely contained mischief or if they would be dulled, haunted by loss and the hardships of responsibility taken on too soon.

“Yes,” she replied at last. “He writes that we are to expect him in the next week or so, depending on the weather of course.”

“Oh,” was all the response Castiel made, though he was more than pleased by the news. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

**Thursday 28 th December 1843.** 

The hall was full of sounds at night, as darkness wrapped around the old stone walls and the hustle and bustle of day ebbed to stillness. The footfalls of the parlour maid, the clatter of pans in the kitchen, and the laughter of the stable hand out in the yard, fell away, but true silence never came. The wind rattled leaded windows, rain hammered against glass, icy air whistled through fissures in the time worn stone, doors groaned, floors creaked, and clocks counted down the passage of time with the beat of their metal hearts. It was as if the Hall itself was a living thing, that sighed out its aches and pains, from centuries of wear and tear.

Amid the sounds that made their way to him through the dark, Castiel frequently struggled to find rest, though the room was snug and his bed was comfortable, dressed with thick sheets and warm blankets. This night was no different, and Castiel had awoken after a few hours to lie open-eyed and restless, staring up at the wooden canopy over his head. It had been more than a few weeks since Castiel had heard that Dean was returning to Blackthorn and his sleep had been more disrupted than usual ever since.

The initial excitement of Dean’s rumoured return to Blackthorn was tempered as time wore on, and the Hall’s errant owner did not appear. He sent no further letters to explain the delay and it was clear that Castiel was not the only member of the household disappointed by it – Ben had been grumpy for days. When Castiel had given up trying to cajole him and gave the boy permission to run down to the kitchens, it was not long before he heard a loud crash, followed by cursing, and a loud scolding that followed the child back up the stairs, and all the way to the schoolroom. 

While sleep eluded him, Castiel mulled over the things he did not have time to consider during the day, when his young charge commandeered his time and attention. Perhaps the restlessness was necessary to process the changes that had taken place in his life, to consider whether the choice he had made had been the right one. He thought about the quiet static life at St Ethelwold’s that he had left behind, full of prayer and unassuming people as stolid and impassive as he was. He thought about the pupils that had come and gone over the years. Occasionally one stayed, as he had done, but most of them moved on, moved forward, and now each of them was made faceless and unremarkable in his memory. He thought about Ben and his eager curiosity, Ellen and her stories, the ruddy faced cook, the maids, even the groundskeeper Robert Singer had made an impression of gruff affability on the few occasions they had met. As the Hall groaned and whispered through the night, Castiel always reached the same conclusion, it wasn’t much, but life at the Hall was good.  

It was while Castiel was lost inside one such sleep-soaked rumination, that a new noise suddenly made itself known above the nightly exhalations of Blackthorn. It was a little closer, a little sharper, and incongruous enough to draw Castiel back to awareness. There was a staccato snap followed by the shushing sound of something shuffling overhead. It travelled back and forth, over and over, as Castiel stared uselessly at the darkness. It was not loud per se, just different, and Castiel thought it might be rats or mice, the scrape of their tiny claws muffled as they ran up behind the wood panelling and between the floorboards. There was nothing Castiel could do about it at that moment, so he pulled the blankets up to cover his ears in an attempt to shut out the sounds, and closed his eyes.  

There was a crash, sharp and loud and heavy enough that Castiel could feel the tremors of it tumbling down from above, passing like a shudder through the bones of the Hall. There was a harsh cry and a guttural inhuman growl. It was so close that Castiel’s blood ran cold as he tried and failed to understand what he was hearing. As he struggled to untangle himself from the bed sheets twisted around his legs, he heard voices in the corridor outside his door, but the words were hidden in low urgent tones.

Unsure of the correct course of action, Castiel moved to the doorway, then hesitated. There was movement outside, the warm waver of candlelight shone through the gap under his door as someone went by on hurried feet. Castiel looked down to where his fingers rested on the iron handle. He was ready to open it, ready to step out and offer assistance. To provide help in times of need was the normal thing to do, the Christian thing to do, but Castiel was gripped by doubt. There was no one calling out for help, so whatever was passing was unlikely to be an emergency, and he could not be sure his presence would be wanted - it might be considered interference on his part. This was Blackthorn business and as a relative newcomer, it might be considered to be none of his.

Castiel was temporarily paralysed by indecision, the cold of the night sinking slowly into his bones. The sounds of disturbance died down and the quiet that followed seemed somehow deeper than before, as if the Hall was holding its breath. A few minutes more and Castiel began to feel a little foolish waiting there, bare foot and shivering. He turned back to his bed, the night was not yet half gone and he was weary.

As Castiel turned his gaze, drifted across the little leaded window. It was the only source of light in the room since the fire had burned out; it cut a pale crosshatched square in the otherwise solid expanse of the wall. He caught the hint of a movement from the corner of his eye, a shade captured and framed by the thin blue moonlight. He turned to look closer, and what he saw there made his blood turn to ice. Between the strips of lead Castiel thought he saw the pallid face of a girl. Her eyes were pools of black shadow and her mouth gaped open in a scream that he could not hear. All he could hear was the thud-thud-thud of his own heart as it pounded painfully against the back of his ribs.

A gasp escaped Castiel’s lips, and he shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the horrible vision. For a moment it seemed to work, and the terrible little face disappeared. The window showed nothing but the shadow of the ivy that climbed the walls, and the tops of the trees in the distance. Their limbs stripped bare by winter, were black and angular against the dark blue of the night sky.  The relief only lasted for a second, as the child returned. The sight of her snatched the breath from Castiel’s lungs as he stared helplessly. It could not be true, he told himself, it could not be real. As though in answer to his demand, the image seemed to flicker before his eyes. She suddenly looked insubstantial, like paint running too thin to stay on the paper. She was there one moment and gone the next, only to reappear even fainter with the next blink of Castiel’s eyes.

What he was seeing made no sense, but Castiel could not tear his eyes away as she came again, her mouth hanging open like a black void as she pressed her tiny hands to the glass. She started to move, opening and closing her mouth, crying out, begging or calling for something. She pulled away again leaving behind a spidery print of her fingers, picked out in frost on the glass. She slammed her palms into the glass and lead in a violent movement, and Castiel could not help but flinch away. He stepped back until he was pressed against the closed door. Her hands fell again and again as she flickered in and out of view. It made no sound, her actions had no tangible effect, there was no crack of fractured glass or any rattle of the latch in its fitting. It was as though she did not really exist.  

Though Castiel believed in God and the reality of an afterlife, he had never considered the possibility that a spirit could remain to walk the earth – they should not, they could not, people died and they moved on. Castiel had never seen or heard anything to give him cause to think otherwise, but the little figure at the window gave off a powerful sense of ‘other’ of ‘wrong’ and he wanted nothing more than for it to be gone, whether it was real or a figment of his over-tired imagination.

“It’s not real,” Castiel said to himself as he closed his eyes. “It can’t be real” he repeated it again and again as though he could make it true by force of will alone. Castiel concentrated on the familiar sounds around him and took a few deep breaths. A quick whispered prayer brought calm, and his heart began to slow from its rapid-fire pace. He opened his eyes and thanked the Lord.

There was nothing there but moonlight and shadow. Castiel wanted to laugh at his own foolishness, to marvel at what horrors the mind could conjure from exhaustion and alarm in the darkness. No doubt the strange noises that had roused him from sleep had affected his mind, making him see terrors where there were none. His let his head fall back onto the wooden door behind him. It landed with a gentle thud as stillness settled into place around him.

The back of his skull smacked, suddenly, into hard wood as someone, or something, slammed violently into his door from the other side. Bang-bang-bang-bang it went, as it rattled in its frame. There was shock and a pain that felt like a fist squeezing inside his chest, as his fear spiked again. Castiel spun on the spot and half backed away as the noise continued.

“Who is it, who’s there?” he shouted trying to get the words out from around his heart, which seemed to have climbed up and blocked his throat. There was no answer, but the pounding abruptly stopped. There was a creak of metal and Castiel dropped his gaze to the black door handle as it twisted slowly to the left, then to the right, and then left again. It moved backwards and forwards faster and faster at a frenetic pace. The image of a deathly pale face flashed before him and he swallowed hard. The door was locked. It was always locked at night. But still he felt fear. It had been a long time since Castiel had been afraid, and neither the sensation nor the memories it brought with it were welcome.

A high pitched wail, ugly and saturated with despair, filled the air and vibrated through the door. Castiel gripped the twisting handle, closing his fist tight around the ball to halt its progress. Whatever was out there was not strong, and Castiel found it easy to hold the handle still against the pressure exerted from the other side. The iron ball twitched in his palm in a weakening effort, once, twice... and then it was over. The handle stopped moving.

Castiel did not know how long he stood there, leaning heavily against the thick oak door, while he struggled to make sense of what had just happened. He dared a glance at the window and it showed nothing but the usual dark shapes of the night wrapped world, no trace of the will-o-the-wisp that had tricked his sleep-dulled eyes. Tentatively, he released the handle, letting his hand hover over it for a second in case it should start moving again. It did not.

He tamped down his anxiety and pushed it away as he finally returned to the comfort of his bed. This was not him. Castiel was sensible, logical. Even as a child, he had refused to participate when the other boys told ghost stories in the dormitory. He was not about to start believing in such things now, and anyway, Ellen had already told him there were no ghosts at Blackthorn Hall.

*******

Castiel blinked awake to the muffled sound of the maid, as she brushed away cold cinders and reset the fire. The fears of the previous night did not come rushing back all at once, but in bits and pieces, like the disorganised traces of a dream. Perhaps it had been a dream after all, a really horrible and disturbing dream. Castiel considered it silently for a moment, as the girl continued her task, unaware that she was being observed. Castiel had not got into the habit of drawing the curtains closed around the bed, and he could see the girl’s back as she piled up coals in the grate. Her hands were dark with the grime of her work, and she valiantly tried to wipe it away with a stained rag that hung from her belt.

“Good morning, Becky.” His voice was still thick and gravelly from sleep.

She jumped a little and pressed a hand over her heart leaving the grey outline of her fingers behind on the front of her white starched apron. “Oh! Mr Milton, you gave me a fright.”  

Though informality was encouraged in general, the younger servants tended to maintain an air of respectful reserve. Ellen had told Castiel in the first days of their acquaintance, in a voice that rang with vexed experience, the habit helped avoid embarrassment on the rare occasions when visitors came to the hall, who might be more than a little scandalised to find themselves suddenly on first name terms with the stable boy or scullery maid, “not that it wouldn’t do some of those oh so superior people some good to be put to work in the kitchens for a day or two themselves,” she had added.

There was a rosy glow on Becky’s cheeks when she turned to look at him, and Castiel did not think it was solely from the fire she had just nurtured into being inside the iron grate. He attempted a reassuring smile in return, so that she knew she was not in trouble for waking him. It was not an expression he was used to wearing often, and he was not sure if it had achieved the desired effect, as Becky looked down at her dirty hands before trying rather unsuccessfully to hide them behind her apron.

“I thought I heard something last night,” Castiel said, taking the chance to get some sort of explanation of the disturbance while he could. Perhaps it was a little unfair; he should have saved his questions for Ellen but the strangeness of the whole thing won out, and he could not stop himself from asking. “Did something happen? I thought I heard voices in the middle of the night.”

Becky looked stricken for a moment, but she replied with confidence. “It was nothing, Mr Milton, just Gwen you know, from the tower.” Her eyes remained fixed on the floor. “She’s... a bit of a strange one I’m sure you’ve noticed.” She glanced up at him as though checking whether or not she ought to continue. He inclined his head slightly and she took it for the sign of encouragement it was intended to be. “Sometimes, Gwen, you know she has a... a... bit of a funny turn.” Becky glanced quickly from side to side then dropped her voice low as she continued, “Mrs Harvelle says we’re not to speak of it outside the Hall but you’re one of us now, so I’m sure she’d not mind my telling you. Gwen’s not from around here you see, and Mrs Harvelle said that the Master had taken her on out of charity. She says that we should have pity on her for her difficulties and that we’re not to go nosing around where we aren’t wanted.” There was a glint in Becky’s eyes even though her voice was no more than a whisper, and her dirty hands were forgotten as she waved them about in the air while words tumbled from her lips. “Me and Ava, we think she must be a relative of Mrs Harvelle, sent here because of some sort of trouble, why else would she put up with all her nonsense and give her the tower rooms all to herself, when the rest of us have to share?” She sat back on her heels with her eyes wide and shining at the mystery.

“Thank you, Becky,” Castiel nodded. “That’s very helpful.” She looked satisfied with that and blushed an even deeper hue of pink as she gathered her tools together and left the room with a brief smile, and a glance back at him over her shoulder.

So Gwen Campbell was the source of the incident in the night time. Castiel had only met her once before, on his first day, when the household had gathered for introductions – which in other words had meant that everyone got to have a good look at the new arrival. He had seen Gwen rarely since then, but he remembered how she stood out as a rather odd figure. She was a small, wiry and tough looking woman. Dour faced among the welcoming smiles and warm handshakes of the other servants, her dark coloured frock with a stiff collar up to her chin and the white skullcap bonnet that covered her hair, made her look like a puritan, straight backed and prim. This had been his immediate impression of her, but he had thought little more of it, after all, who was he to talk, the teachers at St Ethelwold’s had often joked that he had been born a few hundred years too late and should have set sail to the new world with the pilgrims.

He knew that Gwen helped out with the laundry and Ellen had explained that she lived in the old tower at the western corner of the Hall, as Gwen did not much like company and preferred to be left alone. It was unusual for a washer woman to be so indulged in their whims, so Becky’s explanation made a certain amount of sense, and if Gwen was related to Ellen, then perhaps it would not be wise to raise the topic with her. So Castiel decided to let the matter lie, happy with what he now knew and even happier that he had gone with his instinct the night before and not tried to interfere in a situation that might make Ellen uncomfortable. She had been good to him and he would not wish to cause her distress.

The ghostly vision he could not account for. But in the cold light of day, it seemed more than a little ridiculous and he was embarrassed to think about it. He had always had vivid dreams, his paintings and drawings were testament to that, their bizarre subject matter often remarked on by casual observers. It must have been a trick of the light, an image pieced together from an overactive imagination and a peculiar play of shadows from the wind tossed trees. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

**Wednesday 7 th February 1844**

By prior agreement, Castiel had Wednesday afternoons to himself. Ben was given to the care of Ellen, for what purported to be some kind of lessons on economy and household management, but which Castiel strongly suspected, were just a chance for Ben to run wild about the Hall and the grounds while the weather stayed fine. Bobby Singer and the stable hands did not seem to mind keeping an eye on the boy, as he romped about and prattled on in his typically gleeful and childish way, and it was true that they could impart a practical knowledge of the estate and the house that Castiel never could, so he let the arrangement stand without comment.

Castiel used his free time to visit the church in Crossthorpe village. Castiel’s faith was his respite, and in the cool interior of the old church, he felt calm and thankful for his blessings. It was easy to lose track of time with his eyes closed and his head bowed in silent prayer, and the only sounds that marked the passing of the hours were the light footfalls of the churchwarden and the occasional whispers of another parishioner come to take their own portion of comfort.

The winter days were short, so it was no surprise that the sun was already sinking behind the craggy hills to the west as Castiel reached the last stretch of road on his return journey. The temperature dropped in anticipation of the overnight frost, as the pale sun slipped from the sky. By morning there would be a glittering filigree cover, patterning every leaf of the evergreens and each tough blade of grass that stood stalwart in the face of the harsh moorland winter. Castiel pulled up the collar of his winter coat as he walked, to protect him from the chill, though it did little to help, worn and threadbare as it was – he would need to buy a new one come next year if this weather was typical.

At the last turn in the road before Blackthorn, there was a gate fastened across the road. It normally stood open to allow for easy progress along the track, and it was unusual to see it closed. It was also more than a little pointless, since the dry stone walls on either side were tumbled down into rocky mounds a little further off, and it had not served to keep in the hardy little sheep that had roamed the moors for many long years. Castiel did not think about it, as he climbed the stile beside the gate. Moss and dirt covered the rough planks and Castiel wondered about all the people who had climbed it before him, and all those who would follow after.

He stopped for a moment atop the stile, to enjoy the sensation of the cold eddies of air that slipped over his skin, the hair on his exposed wrists stretching up in response to the caress. Castiel’s heart beat a little faster, as he marvelled at the beauty of God’s creation, in evidence all around. He drank in the panorama of the hills and mountains that surrounded him, reaching and stretching up into the sky. In the deepening twilight, the moors were transformed, the mossy greens, the yellow tussocks, and the rich brown of the peaty earth, looked like a patchwork of old bruises on the broken faces of the peaks. There was beauty to be found among these hard landscapes – a landscape he was now beginning to think of as home – and it stirred something inside him. Castiel longed to stretch out his hand and run his fingers across the jagged tops of the crags on the horizon, and for a brief moment he felt as if he could do it, like distance had no meaning and if only he would reach out he would succeed. Castiel’s eyes closed, as he lifted his hand in answer to the sudden yearning and the all too familiar tug that had suddenly re-awakened in his chest.

There was a noise behind him, and the peace of the moment was abruptly shattered. Castiel’s eyes flew open at the scrabble of paws on gravel and a deep rolling bark that vibrated and hung in the air for a moment. He felt a frisson of fear, as tales of monstrous dogs and vile beasts that prowled the moors at night ran quick-fire through his mind. He twisted around and looked down to find the true cause of the interruption. What he saw was a large and scruffy, but perfectly ordinary dog – some kind of wolfhound. It padded excitedly, shifting from foot to foot, while it wagged its tail enthusiastically and regarded Castiel with large liquid brown eyes; eyes filled with little in the way of sense but no aggression.

"Hello,” Castiel said with a slight incline of his head towards the animal.

He received another hearty _woof_ in reply. He was not generally in the habit of conversing with dumb animals, but Castiel could not help but admit that the soppy look this creature was giving him was endearing, and there was no one else was around to witness such foolishness, so it hardly mattered. That was a good point, why was this dog abroad alone.

“Where is your master?" Castiel asked, as he climbed down from his perch above the gate. There was no reply from the animal of course, so instead he leaned over the gate and petted the dog’s head. Its tail thrashed wildly in delight, as though the appendage was trying to shake itself loose.

It proved unnecessary for the dog to gain the power of speech, as Castiel’s question was answered by the sudden echo of hooves. A rider was approaching. The turn in the road and the brisk breeze whistling past had muffled the sound, until the rider was almost upon them. With alarm, Castiel noticed two things; the gate was blocking the road, and the rapid tattoo of hooves on dirt signalled that the rider was approaching at speed. Whether the rider was a stranger or a local, they would not expect the way to be closed, and Castiel did not want to think about the consequences if horse and rider hit the gate unchecked.

Castiel moved on instinct. The dog barked and bounced around excitedly. It jumped up on the other side of the gate as Castiel struggled to dislodge the thick ropes looped around the gatepost.

"Move, dog," Castiel growled, sounding half animal himself. His hands smarted against the rough planks as he grappled with the heavy gate, ever conscious of the louder and louder drumming as the rider rounded the bend in the track. Rusted hinges screeched in protest as Castiel put all his strength into pulling the gate open. The rotted wood fractured and crumbled under his grip until splinters stabbed like needles into the fleshy pads of his fingers, but Castiel hardly noticed the sting, while his heart sped up to match the regular thump-thump of the rider's approach. The gate moved, slow and ponderous, as Castiel heaved it open and dragged it across the dirt, barely manoeuvring it out of the path of the horse and rider as they careened around the corner a moment later.

The next few seconds were a jumble of motions, actions and reactions. Another huge dog shot past Castiel and continued on down the road without paying him any heed. The first great creature loped off after it, abandoning Castiel for its new black and white, and apparently much more interesting, friend. Then there was a large chestnut horse in the middle of the road, that lurched and skidded to an ungainly halt. It carried a large figure on its back, a man swathed in thick black travelling clothes, his face half hidden between the dark folds of his coat and scarf, and a wide brimmed hat that sat low over his forehead. There was nothing visible of his face but a strip of tanned skin and a pair of furious looking green eyes that glowered below a brow drawn into a tight frown.

A clap of thunder boomed and rolled out across the dark grey sky, the commencement of a storm Ellen had told him had been threatening to break all day. She had warned Castiel not to walk into the village, and as the horse reared up and its sharp edged hooves flashed mere inches from Castiel’s face, he wished that he had taken her advice. Though the storm was still distant, the clouds gathered low across the valley, it was loud enough to startle the horse for a second time in as many seconds, and the animal reared again, while Castiel stumbled backwards trying to get out of the way.

The sharp crack and flicker of forked lightning over the moors was a dramatic backdrop to this strange tableau, and Castiel watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as the animal lost its footing on the loose gravel of the road. Small stones scattered and slipped away, as horse and rider struggled in vain to stay upright. There was nothing Castiel could do, as they toppled gracelessly to the ground. For longer than was perhaps necessary, Castiel stood there in shock and stared helplessly at the crumpled tangle of human and animal parts struggling to separate and right themselves. 

“Are you injured?” Castiel called out when he had shaken off his stupor. There was no intelligible response, but Castiel heard the susurrus of muttered words from the stranger. He went nearer, determined to be of assistance if it was required. The horse, at least, managed to stand, and the big beast snorted and trotted away in disgust as Castiel approached. He leaned over the stranger with his hand outstretched in an offer of assistance, and opened his mouth to ask again if the stranger was well or in need of help. Castiel’s words were stopped on his tongue, as the man rolled to his knees and stood up in one fast fluid motion.

The man drew himself up to his full height, his stance tense and defensive, as he narrowed his eyes and peered at Castiel. The rider's frown had twisted into a scowl that carved a deep line down his forehead and between his eyes. Though he was not much taller than Castiel, the stranger somehow seemed to stand over him, his chin lifted high in the air, so that he looked down at Castiel along the sharp line of his nose. It was an aggressive attitude and Castiel automatically dropped his hand to his side and took a step back – more because he sensed this was what the man required, than because he felt any actual fear, no matter how much the stranger reminded him of the highwaymen of years gone by. It was a strange little standoff as they silently glared at each other in the dusk. Unsure of the protocol in such a situation, Castiel finally relented and broke the stalemate.

“So you’re not injured then, Sir?” he asked.

The traveller snorted in derision, in much the same manner as his horse had just done, but he seemed to relax a little, as he rolled his shoulders and twisted his head experimentally, testing for injury. The frown, however, remained intact. The thick cloud rolling in ahead of the storm had cast the place into semi-darkness, further obscuring what little Castiel could see of the stranger's face. He would not be able to describe the man in anything other than the most general of terms, when he related the story of this misadventure to Ellen later on.

“If I was injured, it would be your fault,” the stranger replied as he exaggeratedly brushed the dirt from the front of his greatcoat, letting curses fall free from his lips as he did so. “What the hell were you doing in the road this late in the day? Or do you just like to frighten unsuspecting horses?” It was a deep bad tempered voice, muffled somewhat by the thick scarf that wrapped around his neck and covered his mouth.

“I do not.” Castiel protested. The stranger’s hostility was unsettling and Castiel felt he needed to defend himself against the accusation, though he had no idea why he should care about what the traveller thought of him. “And I did not intend to frighten you or your horse. You have my apologies”

At the reply, the stranger stopped straightening his clothes, and looked at Castiel steadily, his eyes gone wide, as if he could not believe what Castiel had just said. His frown fell away, and for the first time the rider huffed out something that sounded a little bit like a laugh. “No. I don’t suppose you did, and for the record you didn’t frighten me.” The stranger looked over to where the chestnut was snuffling around the verge looking for something edible. The rider made a clicking noise against his teeth and the horse’s ears twitched towards them, she did not move. The stranger rolled his eyes and muttered “women” under his breath before making his way over to the stubborn animal. He grasped the bridle with his dirt covered gloves, and led her back to the middle of the road. Castiel noticed there was a slight limp to his gait as he walked by.

“I was trying to get the gate open when I heard you coming down the lane,” Castiel attempted to explain.

The stranger nodded, but did not turn back. “I suppose you want me to thank you then, or do you want me to pay you for your trouble?” he grumbled.

“That wasn’t why I mentioned it.” Castiel felt an unfamiliar heat prickle his face at the accusation. “I just thought you should know what happened,” he gave a shrug and added, “in case you pass this way again.”

The traveller busied himself checking his mount for a few minutes, as Castiel stood by. He removed his gloves and ran his hands over the animal’s legs, checking for abrasions, before giving the creature a rough but affectionate caress between its ears. “Are you still here?” the man said as he caught sight of Castiel again.

“I would stay until I see you are safely on your way, Sir. It’s the Christian thing to do.”

The rider looked up to the heavens and shook his head. “The Christian thing is it?” Castiel nodded. The stranger squinted, giving him a quick look that moved from his head down to his feet, and Castiel suddenly felt very conscious of his worn and frayed appearance. He pulled his coat in close and crossed his arms over his chest in defence against the scrutiny of those hard eyes. “It’s late to be this far from the village, where do you belong?” the stranger demanded.

Castiel dithered, unsure whether he should tell such a man where he lived. In the end he acquiesced out of politeness. “Blackthorn Hall, I’m on my way back there now.”

“Blackthorn Hall,” the stranger repeated as he heaved himself up into the saddle. He looked at Castiel over his shoulder and Castiel nodded again in confirmation. “I know it. And what do you do there?”

“I’m tutor to Mr Winchester’s ward.” Castiel made a small bow as he stated his position, as if this was a formal introduction rather than a bizarre meeting on a darkened road. He was about to ask who the stranger was, but the rider interrupted before he got the chance.

“Hmm, well then.” The stranger winced as he arranged himself on the back of the bad tempered beast, who huffed and stamped at the dirt impatiently. “It’s getting dark, so I suggest you get back quickly. Strange things happen on these moors at night, and anyway,” he looked up at the slate grey and dark blue clouds building and drawing slowly closer, “the storm will be here soon, best to get out of its way don’t you think?” Without another word the stranger tapped his spurs against his horse’s sides. A puff of dirt kicked up, as the animal cantered away, and then they were gone.

It was true that strange things happened on the moors, Castiel thought, as the first fat drops of water fell from the churning sky, but it seemed that they did not necessarily only happen at night. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

**Wednesday 7 th February 1844**

By the time Castiel reached the shelter of the kitchens, he was soaked through. He stood for a while enjoying the warmth generated by the fires and stoves, letting puddles pool around his feet as his sodden clothes dripped onto the stone floor. A vicious wind had preceded the storm and chased him all the way back to the Hall. If he had not been so tired from it, he would have noticed sooner that the kitchen was in complete disarray. The cook and the kitchen maids clattered about, chopping, stirring, and chattering, their cheeks stained pink from heat and exertion. Castiel watched them from the safety of the doorway; he was puzzled and a little unnerved by the buzz of voices that rose above the hiss and pop of the steam that filled the air with a sweet scented haze. He could not fathom the cause of the commotion. 

Ellen moved across the far side of the room, with her arms clasped around a stack of clean linen. Castiel made his way to her, dodging the culinary obstacles in his path, as maids brandished brass pans like weapons, and boxes filled with odd looking vegetables appeared, as if from nowhere, to trip him up.

Ellen looked relieved when she saw him approach. “Have you heard the news Castiel?”

“What’s happened? What’s the news? I hope it isn’t anything bad?” he asked, unable to decide if the faces around him were showing panic or pleasure.

“Lord, no,” Ellen laughed. “Dean’s come home of course. I told you he would come back eventually didn’t I?” She gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek, then grimaced when her fingers came away rain-damp. She wiped them on her skirts. “He arrived not more than half an hour ago, covered in dirt from head to foot, and demanding to be fed.  He’s had all these exotic things sent up from London ahead of him. The Lord only knows what Cook will be able to do with any of them!” she said, gesturing towards the boxes.  “Aren’t you pleased?” she went on when Castiel did not respond. “I thought you wanted to meet him? Well now’s your chance. He’s asked that you join him after supper, along with me and Ben. Castiel, are you alright?” she asked, clearly concerned. But Castiel was busy trying to school his expression away from the one of shock, that was trying to break out.

“Yes, thank you.” He pushed the words out and tried to focus on Ellen, but it was too late, his attention had been arrested by the shaggy brown dog sprawled out in front of the open fire, a large dog with liquid eyes that languidly watched the hustle and bustle all around. There was no doubt about it, this was the same dog Castiel had petted out on the road.

“Oh don’t you worry about him, he’s a sweetheart, wouldn’t hurt a fly,” said Ellen as she misattributed Castiel’s anxiety to the presence of the not so fearsome beast by the hearth. “Go and get yourself ready, and I’ll come and fetch you in a couple of hours. And don’t worry about Dean, he has a funny way about him sometimes, but he doesn’t mean anything by it, and he’s as good a soul as you’re ever likely to meet.” With that, she pushed him lightly towards the back stairs.

As Castiel opened the door to his room, he breathed a sigh of relief. He needed a moment to collect his thoughts. The Hall was filled with joy at a Master returned; the sounds of good cheer echoed up from below stairs and followed in the footsteps of Ellen, Ava, and Becky, as they rushed to open up long neglected rooms, shaking dust from furniture covers, sweeping away cobwebs, and touching sparks to candlewicks to light even the darkest corners of Blackthorn. Castiel did not begrudge anyone their happiness. Why should they not be happy, when by all accounts, Dean was like the beating heart at the centre of the Hall, but Castiel needed time to consider what had become painfully apparent – he had already met Dean Winchester, and it had not gone well.

His disappointment was not inconsiderable. Castiel had often thought about Dean, had imagined how they would greet each other, what they would talk about; he had even considered the possibility that they might become friends. They were idle thoughts, but he felt as if those possibilities had been snatched away, that the strange man in black was a thief after all. Castiel’s face flushed warm, and embarrassment twisted thick in his stomach at the idea of having to face that man again.

Distracted by such thoughts, Castiel prepared to go downstairs for the evening. As he changed into his best clothes, he noticed that one of the maids had left a trail of damp footsteps around his bed. They were partially dried and the pattern of them was now criss-crossed with the damp outline of his larger tread. Becky and Ava often let themselves in to check the fire, but he wished they would not move his belongings around; on more than one occasion, he had had to search each drawer of the bureau for a book or his sketching paper.

Ellen knocked on the door as the last chimes from the clock peeled out for eight o’clock. She looked at him appraisingly from the doorway, the housekeeper facade had dropped temporarily, and she looked calmer and more content than Castiel had ever seen her before. Her eyes sparkled just like the string of cut glass beads that hung about her neck.

“That will have to do, I suppose,” she said as she looked at him. “Dean has never been one to care much about dress, and thank goodness, who’d want a peacock for a Master?” She moved closer and made an unsuccessful attempt to tame Castiel’s unruly head of hair. Her own locks were pinned up and dressed in a more fanciful way than she usually wore it, and she touched her fingertips to the strands self consciously when she noticed Castiel looking. “It’s nice to make an effort once in a while, even for this old goat,” she said as she looked down and lowered her eyelids.

“You look lovely, Ellen,” Castiel replied sincerely. After a few awkward seconds, Castiel offered her his arm in the manner of gallant fellows, and Ellen laughed, and bobbed down into an exaggerated curtsey in response.

“Come along then, Castiel,” she said, as she urged him out the door, “let’s not leave Dean waiting any longer.”

*******

This was the first time that Castiel had been in the family drawing room. It was a fine room, warm and comfortable in the glow of the fire and candle light, though the fittings were a little worn and showed signs of age like the rest of the house.

Ellen left his side without a word and took a seat on a small couch where she proceeded to busy herself with her sewing, taking advantage of the good light thrown out by the dozens of candles burning nearby. Dean was in a large chair facing the flames and all Castiel could see of him was the back of his head and how the firelight caught on the ends of his light brown hair; it looked like a soft golden halo around his head.

Ben noticed Castiel’s approach from his place on the floor, where he was playing with the dog. “Monsieur Milton!” he cried in his little accented voice as he beamed up at Castiel. “Come and look at what Dean gave me...” he got up from the floor and scampered over to the table in the corner. It was liberally scattered with small painted figures gathered together in platoons, “regardez les soldats, je les aime!” 

“In English Ben,” was the terse response from the man in the chair, his voice just as rough as Castiel remembered. “Haven’t you managed to break him of that damn habit yet, Mr Milton?”

Castiel glanced over at Ben, wondering at the hard edge to Dean’s voice when he talked to the boy, but the child was either oblivious or was used to such treatment, and he had gone back to fiddling with the little lead men. Castiel stood behind Dean’s chair, unsure of what to do or where to put himself in the room.

“Damn it. What are you doing back there, I can’t even see you,” Dean groused. Castiel took a breath and stepped forward. There was a chair set at a right angle to the one Dean occupied, and he moved to take up the empty place. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel could see Ellen smiling and rolling her eyes as if they were all behaving like ridiculous children.

There was something strange here. Castiel felt like he was missing something, and he disliked it when he was uncertain. Castiel had constructed a life of absolutes, and the ability to judge a character quickly, so that he would know to behave accordingly. It was a skill that had helped him survive into adulthood. It disturbed him that he could not get a feel for Dean, could not see behind the facade as Ellen and Ben clearly could.

As Castiel got his first real look at the owner of Blackthorn Hall, he found that the chubby little boy from the painting in the corridor upstairs was nowhere to be seen. His hair had darkened considerably during the intervening years, and the tan from Dean’s recent trip overseas lingered. In the firelight he looked almost as if he was cast from bronze, and it was easy to believe what Ellen had said about Dean’s popularity among the ladies of the county.

“What’s your name?” Dean demanded. He sat forward in his chair and pinned Castiel with his gaze, just as he had done in those last moments on the road, as though Dean was appraising his value.

Castiel struggled under the imperious look, “Milton,” he said at last.

Dean laughed. The transformation was immediate and remarkable. He went from rough and haughty to happy and affable in the space of a heartbeat. He flashed a wolfish smile at Castiel and his eyes glinted in amusement, as if Castiel had made an extraordinary joke – unlikely, Castiel never made jokes. “I meant your Christian name.” Dean sat back and picked up a glass from the table beside him. He drained the contents in one go, gave an appreciative sigh then licked the residue from his lips. “I don’t know what you might have heard about me, Mr Milton, but I’m not such a lost cause that I don’t know who works for me.” Dean’s smile dropped away, but his tone remained friendly.

“My name is Castiel.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Castiel? That’s quite a name. It hardly seems fit for everyday use.”

“Well, it’s the only name I have ever had, so I endeavour, with God’s will, to make the best of it.” Castiel replied earnestly. Dean stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed and open mouthed, then his face creased up as he laughed again. It was a good sound, and although Castiel had been serious in what he had said, he was happy that Dean found humour in it. He liked this version of his employer much better than the one he had met on the road.  

“Well then, Castiel,” Dean said, putting emphasis on his name. “I hope Ben has not been giving you too much trouble?” At the sound of his name Ben looked up and waved enthusiastically, then started to sidle closer with a determined look on his young face.

“He’s a good boy and a good student; I think he will do well with a little structure and encouragement.”

Ben chose that moment to interrupt. With a mischievous grin on his face, he pulled on Dean’s sleeve to get his attention. “N'avez-vous pas un cadeau pour Monsieur Milton?” Ben asked, looking imploring and hurt on Castiel’s behalf for the oversight.

“A ‘cadeau’ for Mr Milton?” Dean turned back to Castiel. “Did you expect me to bring you a present from my travels, Castiel?”

“No, Sir, I did not,” Castiel answered hurriedly.

Dean did not look angry, but he searched Castiel’s face intently. “Why not? Don’t you like gifts?”

“I... I don’t know. I have little experience of them. They are generally thought pleasant things I believe.”

“You believe?” Dean frowned. “You’ve never been given a present?”

“Not that I recall. No.” Castiel admitted.

Ben was wearing a horrified expression at Castiel’s confession, and renewed his pulling at Dean’s shirt sleeve with increased vigour, begging a ‘cadeau’ on behalf of his poor neglected teacher.

Castiel was mortified.  “Please, Mr Winchester, it really doesn’t matter...”

Dean interrupted before Castiel could finish his protest. “I brought things for Ben and for Ellen and Bobby, and for the rest of the servants. You are part of this household aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I...”

Dean held up his hand. “Then as Ben says, you should have a present too, it’s only fair.”

“It’s not necessary,” Castiel protested again as Dean looked about in an exaggerated manner and patted down the pockets of his waistcoat. Ben giggled at the charade.

“What do you think, Ben? What would be a suitable gift for Mr Milton?”

“Bijoux,” Ben cried after a moment of silence, making everyone jump. “Monsieur Milton est si gris, you should give him the jewels to make him joyeux.” Castiel understood each of Ben’s words but failed to decipher the meaning of them all together. To his surprise Dean hummed and nodded in agreement.

 “I think you might just be right, Ben.” Dean smiled at Castiel’s obvious confusion. “I brought some things back with me from London,” he said by way of explanation as he reached for something hidden from Castiel’s view on the other side of his chair. “Ben here has something of a taste for exotic fruit, can’t seem to make do with an honest English apple like the rest of us.” Dean lifted up a small dish and held it out for Castiel’s inspection. The blue and white patterned china was spotted with fragments of something dark red and shiny. In the wavering candlelight, it looked almost like drops of blood. Ben gave a delighted cry and darted forward to grab some of the pieces; he dropped them into his mouth and chewed them with a satisfied hum.

“What is it?” Castiel asked, as took the offered plate of red jewels, as Ben called them, from Dean’s hand.

“You might recognise it better like this,” Dean said, reaching down again before holding up a rather ugly looking globe shaped fruit, its thick skin was scuffed and it was coloured in patches of orange and pink.

“It’s a Pomegranate?” Castiel looked to Dean for confirmation.

“They are beautiful jewels are they not?” Ben muttered with his mouth full, and Castiel had to agree, that yes, they were. He had never seen a real one, only pictures in the black and white print of books, and one poor rendering in an old painting of Persephone that had hung in the Headmaster's lounge at St Ethelwold’s. He had no idea that such a drab looking thing would reveal such glorious colour when it was cut open.

Dean gave Castiel a curious look, watching as he poked about at the red encased seeds. “Have you tried it before?”

“No, never,” Castiel replied dragging his eyes away from the beautiful little rubies that held him in thrall.

“Go ahead,” Dean said gesturing towards the little dish. “How will you know if you like your gift if you don’t try it?”

 

 

 

 

Ben clapped as Castiel picked up some of the little bead like seeds. They were smooth and slippery on his fingertips as he lifted them to his mouth. Everyone in the room focused on him while he chewed, and it made him more than a little uncomfortable to be so singled out. There was a pop as each plump little jewel burst and his mouth filled with syrupy liquid. It was amazing. Sweet and fragrant and like nothing Castiel had ever tasted before.

“So? Do you like it?” Dean asked. He had shuffled to the edge of his seat as he watched.

Castiel swallowed the hard little pits that were left in his mouth. There were sticky juices drying on the pads of his fingers and he had to suppress the desire to lick them clean. He had to clear his throat before he could answer. “Very much, it’s very good, thank you.” Castiel turned to Ben to thank him as well, but the boy had already lost interest in the adults and had returned to his ranks of miniature soldiers.

“Good, good,” Dean muttered. “Then here, take your present, Castiel.” It took Castiel by surprise when Dean held out the uncut pomegranate to him. “Take it,” he entreated, “I don’t have anything else to offer you.”  After a moment of hesitation, Castiel took the offering from Dean’s hand and set it carefully on the table beside him. He did not know what to say and the fire crackled loudly in the sudden quiet. “And how do you like the Hall?” Dean asked, shattering the tension of the moment.

“I like it very much. Blackthorn is very different from where I grew up. The country, the Hall, everything is...” Castiel searched for the right word, “very natural... very wild.”

Dean smiled again. “You think we are wild? Do you hear that Ellen? Castiel here thinks we’re wild!”

Castiel was suddenly afraid that he had said something to offend and he started to stammer out an apology. “No I didn’t mean...”

“Castiel’s from the south,” said Ellen rescuing Castiel from his predicament. “I expect they’re a more genteel kind of folk where he’s from.” She threw a wink in Castiel’s direction.

Dean smirked. “Is that so Castiel? Do our rough manners shame us?”

“No, Mr Winchester, I...”

“He’s trying to be funny, Castiel, pay him no heed,” said Ellen.

Dean looked at Ellen and pressed a hand to his chest in mock distress. “Trying to be funny?” he asked. “I am funny and don’t you forget it or I’ll throw you out of the house.” Dean turned back to Castiel. “Will you do me a favour and call me Dean? Out here in the wilderness we don’t care much for fine manners.”

Castiel was happy to comply. “As you wish, Dean,” he replied.  

"So why’ve you come to the uncouth north, Castiel? Don't you miss your friends or your family?"

His background was not a topic Castiel talked about easily, but he felt no need to conceal anything. "I have neither. My parents are dead, I don’t remember them. I lived with my uncle for a few years but he found it... unpleasant, to have a child around I think."

Dean looked puzzled. "You think?"

"I don't remember it well." At Dean’s raised eyebrow Castiel continued. "I became very ill when I was about five years old and I don't remember much from before then. When I recovered, I was sent to St Ethelwold's school and there I stayed, until I came here."

Dean had turned his head and was watching Ben as he played, engrossed in inflicting casual carnage among his miniature infantry. “Your uncle sounds like a bit of a bastard," Dean said seriously, and then it was Castiel's turn to smile.

"Yes,” he readily agreed. “I think he was."

"And you didn’t leave any friends behind you at the school?"    

"No. I have never formed strong attachments. It is perhaps a fault of mine."

Dean shrugged. "So we shouldn’t expect any scented letters to arrive for you then?"

“I’m sorry? I don’t understand what you mean by that?”

“I’m asking if you’ve left any broken hearts behind you in Hampshire.” Castiel’s increasingly confused look was evidently answer enough because Dean nodded in understanding. “So there’s no ladies waiting to hear from you then?”

"Oh no, nothing like that,” Castiel replied when he finally worked out what Dean was asking about.

“Well that works out better for us then doesn’t it, if no one’s going to come and claim you as their own. And you never know you might come to be grateful in the long run, Castiel, family doesn’t come without problems of its own." There was a pause as Dean looked down at his hands. He was running the thumb of one hand over the knuckles on the back of the other. It was an oddly vulnerable gesture, and Castiel had an urge to comfort him in some way, though he had no idea how.

Instead, Castiel went for the tactic of distraction. "I’ve heard many good things about your brother."

"Yes?" Dean pulled himself back from his thoughts and into the conversation with obvious effort. “More good things than you’ve heard about me, I’ll bet.”

Castiel chose to ignore Dean’s self-deprecating comment."He is in London I understand?"

"Yes, he's going to be an attorney." It was said with undisguised pride. "He's going to be a great man someday."

Ellen suddenly piped up from the side of the room to add, "Sam's been a _great_ man for a while already," which caused both Dean and Ellen to start laughing. The noise disturbed the dog that was slumbering at Dean’s feet and the beast raised its head and looked at its master for a long moment to see what all the fuss was about. Castiel was equally as mystified.

"Don't look so worried, Castiel, you'll understand when Sam arrives." Dean said, wiping a finger at the corner of his eye where there was water gathering. "He’ll be here next week, so we should get his rooms ready, Ellen,” he added.

Ellen immediately put down her sewing and sat up straighter on the couch, slipping seamlessly into housekeeper mode. "Does he bring Jessica?"

"No, not this time. Jessica is Sam's Fiancée," Dean explained. "Her father is the head of the firm he works for and she’s way out of Sam’s league. It caused quite a stir when he asked for her, but no one can say no to Sam when he turns on the puppy eyes so they agreed to it eventually." 

Castiel was just drawing in breath in advance of asking another question, when there was a sharp rap at the door. Before anyone had time to respond, Bobby Singer strode into the room. He was, as usual, dressed for the outdoors and he left muddy footprints across the polished wooden floor as he came near to the fire. Ellen rolled her eyes heavenward and muttered a curse under her breath.

"Dean," was all Bobby said by way of greeting. His face was grim and he did not acknowledge Ellen or Castiel. Dean looked up at the old man and nodded once, some understanding passing between them without the need for words. It surprised Castiel. He knew everyone at the Hall was on good terms – apart from the infamous Gwen perhaps, but he had not realised that Bobby was so close to the family, even more so than Ellen apparently.

"Barlow?" Dean asked as he started to stand. Bobby replied in the affirmative and abruptly removed himself from the room, with no more ceremony than he had entered with.

Dean stood in silence for a minute, while Castiel wondered if it was appropriate to ask what was going on, it was clearly something bad.

“Well,” Dean said at last, fixing Castiel with a steady gaze. “You say you have no people, but Ben has been singing your praises all evening, and Ellen likes you well enough and she doesn’t suffer fools gladly, I should know,” he said with a smirk, running his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “You could belong here at the Hall,” Dean said reached out a hand towards Castiel as though they were sealing some solemn agreement. “You could belong here with us if you wanted to.”

“I’d like that,” Castiel replied as he stood up and took Dean’s hand in his own. Dean’s grip was strong as they shook on the bargain.

“Well then,” Dean said, as Ben clapped and Ellen looked on with a small approving smile. “Welcome to Blackthorn, Cas.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7**

**Monday 12 th February 1844**

 

Dean left Blackthorn that night with Bobby in tow, quietly slipping away while the household slumbered. Castiel heard them leave, roused from a deep sleep by the sound of bridled horses in the yard, as they snorted and stamped out their displeasure on the cobbles.  Ellen’s grim countenance the next day made it abundantly clear that whatever was happening was nothing that a tutor needed to know.

The silence surrounding Dean’s absence continued on through the week, so it was something of a surprise the day Castiel walked into the school room to find the Master of the Hall sitting at the work table, engrossed in examining the papers spread out before him. There was no sign of Ben anywhere. Dean looked tired and there were dark grey shadows beneath his eyes, which stood out even against his tanned skin. Castiel caught himself wondering what sort of trouble could have put them there, and how much deeper the shadows would be once the last traces of sun had faded. He pushed the thoughts quickly aside marking them as none of his business.

The previous day Ben had been drafting maps – determinedly staking claim to a collection of overseas territories on behalf of the French and obstinately refusing to heed Castiel’s corrections. Castiel assumed these were what Dean was looking at so intently, but as he moved silently into the room he realised, with some mortification, that the drawings in Dean's hands were his own. Dean looked at them with his brows drawn together and his bottom lip sucked into his mouth, the pearly gleam of pale teeth just visible where he bit down into the flesh.

 The sketches were nothing more than the product of a dreary afternoon when the weather had been bad and Ben was unable to settle, distracted by the white-out of a snowstorm that buried the garden and left deep drifts clinging to the frozen walls of the Hall. They were certainly not worth the degree of attention Dean was giving them. Castiel cursed himself for leaving them out. His pictures had caused more than a few raised eyebrows over the years, and from time to time, even a whispered insinuation about the state of his sanity. He would have been more cautious, but the school room was Castiel's domain and no one, apart from Ben and the maid who refilled the coal scuttle, usually spent time there.

Dean was completely absorbed in examining the largest of the sketches and Castiel was close enough to see it over Dean’s shoulder before the other man was aware of Castiel’s presence. Dean jumped as he caught sight of him.

"Damn it, Cas, someone needs to put a bell on you," he grumbled as he recovered his composure, his face softening into more friendly lines.

"I’m sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Castiel replied.

Dean waved a dismissive hand. "Forget it; I'm just a bit on edge. Sam's due to arrive later on and we have some urgent business to deal with." Castiel tried out a small reassuring smile and hoped that it worked. Dean seemed to understand and he smiled back easily - it was amazing to Castiel how Dean seemed to be able to flip in and out of emotions so quickly, moving mercurially from one to another in a fraction of a second, yet fully inhabiting each as he went.

"Are these yours?" Dean asked casually as he looked down at the pictures again.

Castiel nodded. "I didn't mean to leave them lying around."

"Do you draw often?"

"Not often but I enjoy it," Castiel confessed.

"They're good, Cas. But I think I like this one the best." Dean lifted one of the papers so that Castiel could see. "Does it mean something?" Dean sounded honestly curious as he placed it carefully back on the dark wood tabletop. Dean used his finger to trace the outline of an ill-defined figure. Castiel was not entirely comfortable with the way Dean followed the lines with a light, almost reverent touch. He had drawn the figure in the centre of a stony desert valley. It was silhouetted against the bright light of the setting sun on the horizon while darkness rushed in from each side, and there was a crown across the top of the picture, some distance above the figure’s head. Many of the other sketches were of the Hall or the view from the window. Castiel thought it unfortunate that Dean had lighted on that one in particular.

"I... No, not really,” Castiel replied, swallowing down his moment of discomfort. “The images just come to me, when I'm doing other things, or sometimes I just wake up with them in my head. I like putting them down on paper. It makes them feel solid, and it feels important... like praying." Castiel had no idea why he was trying to explain this to Dean; he had never spoken of it to anyone before, no one had ever been interested enough to ask, and even if they had, Castiel was not certain he would have been comfortable talking about it. The creation of these pictures was the one bright scratch across the grey slate of his history. The feeling as he pulled these things from somewhere inside his mind, of creating worlds in lines and curves, colour and shape – it felt transcendent.  

"Do you have more like this?" Dean asked.

"Yes. Not just sketches, I paint as well."

Dean looked puzzled as he glanced quickly around the room then down at the pictures again. "We have paint and canvases here don’t we? You should use them. "

"But those are for Ben,” Castiel protested. “I did not want to presume..."

"You can use whatever you want, Cas," Dean said, looking up at Castiel like he was a puzzle to be solved. "In fact, I insist that you do. And bring me some more of these to look at this evening. I'd like to see what goes on inside that head of yours." Castiel was a little taken aback by the request, but who was he to deny the man who paid his wages.

"Oh, and we’re taking Ben on an expedition today," Dean added, and Castiel was embarrassed to realise that he had completely forgotten that he should be with Ben instead of discussing his useless hobbies. "The boy is getting soft and pale being inside too much." Dean stood up and his chair moved across the floor with an ugly scraping noise. “Will you meet us down by the front door in a few minutes?” Dean asked. Castiel bobbed his head in assent.  “Good. And wrap up warm, its still cold out.” Dean smirked over his shoulder as he left the room. Castiel could do little other than stare after him in bemused silence.

*******

It was a fine day and the sky was a thin watery blue. The year was still too young for the sun to take the chill from the air or to chase away the hard morning frost, but there were signs of the approach of spring all around, as the little party of explorers set out from the Hall to trek up into the wilds beyond. Skylarks raised their voices and danced in great wheeling dives overhead and green shoots pushed their way through the winter crust of the earth. In the lower parts of the valley, the ground was already dotted with the butter yellow of early daffodils, and there were patches of pink, purple and white crocuses that bloomed under the shelter of the old oak trees. Even the twisted old Blackthorn bushes were wearing their white blossom, as the travellers passed by; later in the year there would be sloe berries instead of flowers to be picked from their spiky branches.  

Dean led them up into the hills. He covered ground quickly with his long-legged stride, and more than once Ellen, Becky, and Ben had to run to keep up. It was clear that Dean had a destination in mind, though he did not share it with the rest of them, instead he just urged them on, and pointed out anything he thought might be of interest to Castiel along the way. Ben whooped and ran about, scaring the sheep that dotted the terrain, making them scatter and bleat noisily, until Dean reined him in with a hard look and instructions not to scare the new year lambs away from their mothers.

Eventually they crested the brow of a hill and came to a small plateau. To one side there were a few stunted trees slanting in the direction of the wind, but in the middle, standing proud against the backdrop of the pale blue sky, was a circle of standing stones. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat in astonishment. He knew that stone circles were not uncommon in this part of the country, but these were the first that Castiel had seen.  They were not large; the biggest of them reached only to Castiel’s shoulder, and they were weather worn, some of them lying horizontal on the ground where they had fallen during their long lonely vigil on the hilltop. Castiel was fascinated and couldn’t help running his hands over their rough lichen covered sides, trying to imagine how many centuries they had stood and the ancient people who had put them there.

“I thought you’d like them,” Dean said. Castiel had been so mesmerised by the stones he had not noticed Dean approach.

“They are extraordinary. I had no idea they were here or I would have come to see them sooner,” he replied. Castiel noticed that the shadows under Dean’s eyes seemed to have faded in the sunlight, and it occurred to him that perhaps this outing was not just for Ben’s benefit.

They set up base camp in the shelter of the stones, Ellen directing Becky on where to set down blankets so that they could all sit comfortably together on the cold ground to eat the provisions Cook had prepared for them. Dean was in high spirits, and while they ate he spun tall tales that held Ben in thrall, fantastical stories about the ancient people who had left behind the stones and mysterious creatures that lived in holes deep in the ground or slept among the leaves of the trees waiting for someone to come and wake them up.

It was interesting to watch Dean with Ben. Although he was not Dean’s child, they acted more happily filial than any father and son Castiel had ever seen as they romped about, though of course his own experience in that area was rather limited. There was clearly a lot of affection between them and it pleased him to see it; not all orphans were so lucky.

After lunch Castiel found a seat on a lightning-felled tree, where he watched Dean and Ben play some strange form of cricket with Becky roped in as a reluctant third when Castiel had declined the invitation; Becky had grown up with brothers and therefore had experience of the game. At Dean’s insistence, Castiel had brought along his sketchbook and charcoals, and as he watched them run about with their cheeks turning pink, he drew out whatever took his fancy in quick rough lines, leaning the little book on his knee and letting the simple movements take over. A feeling of contentment sank into his bones as the minutes turned into hours.

“What is Monsieur Milton drawing?” Ben suddenly called out. Castiel looked up to see Ben watching him with interest from across the plateau. He did not have a watch to check, but Castiel could tell from the long shadows cast by the standing stones that the afternoon was wearing on. They would need to go back to the Hall before long, or they would risk having to bear witness to the fury of an overtired child on the return journey.

“Why don’t we go and ask him!” replied Dean. He hoisted the little man up onto his back while Ben giggled, then jogged over to Castiel. “May we?” he asked, and Castiel handed the book over willingly. “So what have we here?” asked Dean, directing the question at Ben who was looking down at the pages from over Dean’s shoulder. “You and me, a view of Blackthorn, you again...” Dean narrated as he turned the pages. “There’s Ellen, and... who’s this?” Dean tilted the book so that Castiel could see which picture he was looking at. Dean had gone back some way through the book, beyond the sketches Castiel had made that day to some rough outlines he had done some months ago.

Castiel’s heart gave a little start when he saw which picture Dean was looking at, he did not even know why he had drawn it, and he opened his mouth to dismiss it when Ben clapped his hands together in excitement.

“It’s the girl!” Ben exclaimed, then added seriously, “I think she lives in the garden.” His small round face took on a sombre expression as he pursed his lips together and nodded. Castiel felt a twist of cold unease but tried not to let it show on his face.

“What girl Ben?” Dean asked in a quiet voice as Ben wriggled until he was forced to swing the child down to the ground before he would answer.

The little boy looked at them with what would have been a comically exasperated face, if Castiel had not been busy repressing the shiver of fear that kept threatening to shoot down his spine. “The little red haired girl,” Ben said as if they were terribly slow not to know this already. “I think she lives outside in the garden because I’ve seen her from the windows and sometimes she is even there when it rains. She always looks sad, and I think it must be because she is very poor because she always wears the same dress and has no shoes. I tried to play with her but she hides from me when I go outside, even when I took her some cake she didn’t come back, and then the dog ate it and Cook wouldn’t give me anymore.” He looked forlorn that his attempts at chivalry had failed and Dean seemed to find it all extremely amusing, and was trying desperately to stifle a laugh. Castiel did not find it funny at all.  

Dean patted Ben lightly on the shoulder in reassurance then looked back at Castiel. “I don’t know this girl,” he said. “But she might belong to one of the farm workers.”

Yes, Castiel thought, perhaps that was it. Perhaps he had seen this child somewhere in passing, in church or at Crossthorpe maybe, and he had somehow conjured up her image. The idea gave him some comfort.

Dean squinted at the picture some more with an odd look playing across his face. He glanced up at Castiel with a frown. “She does not look well,” he said in a flat tone.

“She looks how she looked to me when I saw her,” Castiel replied. He was glad that Dean did not push the point any further and just nodded his head instead.

“I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows who she belongs to, perhaps we can help, and anyway she shouldn’t be coming onto Hall grounds alone, there are traps around the perimeter that could be dangerous if she wonders from the path.” With that he sent Ben off to “bother” Ellen for a while.

Dean did not follow Ben back to where the ladies were packing up the provisions, he chose to linger and stooped to sit beside Castiel on his improvised bench. Moments passed in silence and Castiel became very conscious of Dean watching his hands as he drew a quick rough sketch of Blackthorn Hall as it appeared from this vantage point, almost hidden behind the grey-green folds of the intervening hills.

Dean cleared his throat, drawing Castiel’s attention. “You’ve done wonders with Ben. He’s much happier than last time I was here, so thank you, for taking care of him.”

“That is what you pay me for,” Castiel reminded Dean, though he could not help but be a little warmed by the compliment.

Dean laughed and it crinkled up the corners of his eyes. “I suppose it is. But not everyone would take such care with a parentless child.” He stopped and looked a little awkward, darting a quick glance at Castiel out of the corner of his eye before looking away again as he rubbed absently at the back of his neck.

“Indeed,” replied Castiel. “But I think all children should be treated well, no matter who their parents are or where they may be.”

Dean hummed a quiet agreement. “Has Ellen told you about Ben, about where he comes from?”

“A little, but I don’t need to know.”

“You probably think he’s mine, like all the gossips of the county do, but he isn’t.” Dean looked away with an indecipherable expression.

“No, I don’t think that,” Castiel said, trying to communicate his certainty with a firm tone. “I know he isn’t your child.” Dean looked at him and Castiel could read the question before he asked it. “I know he isn’t yours because if he was you would acknowledge it publicly... you would give him your name.” It was a plain truth and it cost Castiel nothing to say it, but Dean seemed surprised.

“You’re right,” said Dean and his voice cracked a little. “I knew his mother, Lisa, when I was staying in Paris for business. It feels like a long time ago now, it was back when my father was still alive, before I was on my own with the Hall. I helped her with some trouble she was in and we spent some time together.” Dean’s eyes were on Ben as he settled down against Ellen’s thick skirts and started to pick at some of the bread left over from lunch. “Then a few years ago, I got word that Lisa had died and that she had asked for me to take care of the boy. I’m not sure why...”

“Perhaps because she loved both of you..?” It seemed the simplest explanation.

Dean snorted in response. “No I don’t think so, that’s not really how it was between us.”

“Then maybe it was because she saw that you were a good man.”

Dean shook his head, then looked down at the ground. “I don’t think you’d call me that if you knew everything about me. No. I guess she just thought he’d be safer with me than anyone else. But I didn’t do very well to begin with; I didn’t want the responsibility of a child in the house, another person to think about, to worry about. It was more than a year before I brought him to Blackthorn, and then I had to go away. I just wish I could do better for him...” Dean stopped and frowned then turned his full attention to Castiel, his eyes flashed vivid green in the rays of the sinking sun as he looked at him in a vaguely perplexed way. “Why the hell am I telling you this? I never talk about this...”  

There were a few awkward seconds as Dean fell silent and Castiel had no idea what the right response might be, then suddenly Dean shook himself and half jumped up, laughing as he started to move away. “Perhaps Ben isn’t the only one benefitting from your company.” Dean squinted up at the sky though there was nothing to see but a few small clouds. “It’s getting late, we should head back to the Hall,” he declared. He fixed a small smile into place as he turned to call for Ellen and Becky to hurry up but Castiel could see quite clearly that it did not reach his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8**

**Monday 25 th February 1844**

 

“Was that Sam?" Castiel asked. Becky was humming a tune to herself as she dusted a nearby mantel piece, her cloth sweeping back and forth like a little dance in time the sound.

"Oh, yes it is," she squeaked, nodding enthusiastically and blushing, her eyes were wide round limpid pools of blue.

Castiel looked out of the window again. There were three riders in the yard below, two already mounted, the third in the process of swinging himself up into the saddle slung over the back of the familiar chestnut mare, Dean’s favourite horse. He was easy to recognise, wrapped up in the same travelling clothes as he had worn all those weeks ago when Castiel had met the gruff stranger on the road. There was a shorter stouter figure with him and although Castiel could not see his face, it was not difficult to guess that it was Bobby Singer since Dean rarely rode out with anyone else. Then there was the new addition, a tall young man with broad shoulders and a straight back, his long legs dangling a little comically either side of a big powerful brute of a horse that Castiel recognised as the largest stallion housed in the Hall’s stables. Somehow Sam managed to make it look like a pony.  

"Do you know if they’ll be gone long?” He tried to sound disinterested but was not sure he managed it. “I had hoped we could be introduced this evening?" 

Dean had talked about his brother enthusiastically and at length over the last week or so and Castiel had watched enraptured by the spark Sam’s imminent arrival seemed to have ignited in Dean. Sam’s visit had been delayed by a couple of weeks on account of a case his firm was working on taking longer than expected and Dean had been sore with disappointment to begin with; some choice curses had been employed to illustrate just how disappointed, to the point that Ellen had been forced to press her hands over Ben’s ears and remove him from the room on one memorable occasion. Everyone had stayed out of Dean’s way for a while after that. But he soon rallied his spirits, and afterwards Sam and Sam’s forthcoming arrival had become the mainstay of their nightly conversations in the drawing room.

Becky was fidgeting a little under Castiel’s questioning gaze. "I'm not sure, I think they've gone over to Barlow. They might be gone overnight, but I’m sure Sam will be back tomorrow." A slightly glazed expression came into her eyes and her voice transformed into a thick breathy sigh. "He's staying at least a week this time," she said to no one in particular. The cloth in her hand stilled and she stared into space with an odd expression that Castiel was completely unable to comprehend, it looked like she might be experiencing some sort of inner discomfort. Castiel chose to ignore it.

"Barlow, isn’t that where those people disappeared from last year?" He moved away from the window once the riders had gone. "Isn't that nearer to The Grange than to Blackthorn? I thought the Fairdale family looked after things over there?"

Barlow was at least half a day’s walk from Blackthorn, further on down the main road in the opposite direction from the larger and more affluent village of Crossthorpe. There had been some trouble there the year before, something Castiel had heard people talk about in hushed tones after church on Sundays. It was also the word that Bobby had spoken to Dean on the night of his return, the thing that had taken him away again so soon. Castiel could not believe that the two things were unrelated though he was at a loss to understand how or why Dean was involved.

Becky hummed an agreement as she focussed on him. She looked a little surprised that he was still there. "It's terrible,” she said as she returned to wiping down the marble surface. “Two lads up and vanished in the last six months, they didn’t take anything or tell anyone they were going, and now a young girl and her baby they’re..." She stopped dead and her bottom lip quivered. Even Castiel in his ignorance could see she was distressed.

"Have they gone missing too?" he asked gently.

"No." She grimaced and blinked as water gathered and balanced along the lower lids of her eyes, threatening to spill at any moment. "They're dead, Mr Milton. Murdered, Mother and child both, and that’s not all, it was all very strange..."

"Strange how?" he frowned.

She sniffled a little and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. "Well there wasn’t a mark on them and they hadn't been ill, yet the husband came home to find them dead, just dead for no reason. And it wasn’t just them, but all the chickens in the coop outside and a local cat too that belonged to another family, it looked like it had just wondered in and died with them."

It was odd, but Castiel was not sure it warranted the alarm Becky seemed to think appropriate. "It might have been some kind of poisoning perhaps? There are gases that could do that, I think," he reasoned. Though in what circumstance a gas could kill just two people and a few chickens in the middle of a village he had no idea. 

Becky looked at him doubtfully. "Maybe, but someone down in the village said as how there were markings inside the house and all around the bodies. The husband, he cleaned them up as he was afraid the vicar might think they were ungodly people and refuse them a place in the kirk-yard."

"I doubt the vicar would take that kind of gossip seriously," he scoffed, and it came out sounding rather more severe than he had intended.

Becky bristled in response. "But you’re not from around here are you, Mr Milton, and you don't know the half of what goes on." Her eyes went wide as she realised her error. "I'm sorry, Sir," she stammered out looking guilty. "It wasn’t my place to say such a thing. Please don’t tell Mr Winchester I said anything about it," and with that she scuttled off before he could tell her not to worry.   

*******

In the weeks since Dean had returned to Blackthorn, it had become routine for Castiel and Ellen to spend their evenings in his company. Sometimes Ben would be there for a while, and occasionally Bobby would also grace them with his presence. So Castiel felt a pang of disappointment when Becky proved correct in her conjecture that the Winchesters would not return to Blackthorn that night. The depth of Castiel’s discontent was a surprise. It was like a nebulous shadow that dogged his steps throughout the rest of the day; it hung over him as he instructed Ben, and dulled his enjoyment of Ellen’s company after dinner, even when she took pity on him and tried to distract him with her best stories. The feeling was vague and insubstantial and Castiel was unable to pin it down or examine it, therefore he could not establish its cause beyond the simple observation that he had become used to Dean’s company and their burgeoning friendship, and was a tad despondent without it.

Castiel returned to his room early that night and as he walked the gloomy corridors he heard the now familiar sound of Gwen’s laughter as it echoed and bounced around within the narrow space. He had grown accustomed to it of late. Ellen had explained how Gwen’s strange moods sometimes lasted a while and tended to worsen when the family was at home “because of the extra work and the coming and going of strangers,” she had explained. Castiel was embarrassed to think of how afraid he had been the first time he had heard her in one of her fits. Now he was able to ignore it, to filter out the manic giggles and high pitched shrieks. He pushed his key into the lock and snapped it open with practiced ease, set his candle down on the desk and turned back to close the door and muffle the noise that ran down the hall behind him.

Castiel kept his sketches together in the bottom drawer of his bureau, and he stooped to rifle through them as he looked for the picture of Dean and Ben he had started the day of the expedition to the stone circle. He had half an idea to work it up into a more polished piece and thought he might present it to Dean if it was good enough, and for now he wanted the distraction, something to focus on beside his rather dark mood.

It seemed even that plan of action was to be foiled, because Castiel could not find the sketch. He methodically extracted and examined every piece of paper in the drawer, then flicked through the pages of his sketch books to see if it was lodged between the leaves. It was not. It was possible, he supposed, that it was in the school room, though he had no recollection of taking it there in the first place. At a loss as to where else to look, Castiel gave up and turned his attention to a book instead. He dragged an old high-backed chair over and positioned it by the fire where the light would be better and not strain his eyes, and settled there for the rest of the evening.

The book fell to the floor with a dull thump, and Castiel jerked awake, hissing in pain at the pull of an ache in his neck. The fire had burned down to glowing embers and the room was getting cold. He stood up and stretched out his back before bending to scoop up the fallen book. There was something pale in the shadowed gap under the bed, a light square that stood out against the black and caught Castiel’s eye. He crouched down and groped about in the narrow space until his fingertips found and recognised the familiar smooth slide of paper. He snagged it and slid it out, stirring up tiny balls of dust that rolled out from under the bed and played about on the floor like tiny creatures, pushed along by air currents too thin for Castiel to feel.

The paper came out blank side up, but Castiel already knew what he would see when he turned it over. It was the missing sketch and it was ruined. Not only was it was smudged and smeared with dust and debris from the floor, but it had been defaced. There were thick charcoal lines scrubbed across Dean's eyes and Ben had been obscured from the picture completely. Castiel was astonished at the wanton destruction. This was not accidental damage, someone had come into Castiel’s room and deliberately destroyed the picture, and although he could not comprehend what could have motivated such an act, he had no doubt that Gwen Campbell was the person responsible.

 Something red and hot bubbled and burst and Castiel realised with a shock that he had clenched his right hand into a fist, his nails carving half moon crescents into his palm. He was angry and he did not like it, it was a growing gnawing feeling in his chest that needed an outlet, a release. He felt frustrated and not quite in control of himself. The damaged picture was still in his fist and he wanted it gone. It ripped clean down the middle, a straight tear that bisected Dean’s head under the black line where his eyes had been. Somehow it just made Castiel even more furious, so he tore it into smaller and smaller pieces and threw them into the fire with a grunt. The paper caught then curled and shrivelled up into grey ashes. Castiel was not used to having such strong reactions, and as the paper disintegrated before his eyes, he came back to himself. He felt calmer and more rational.

 Gwen was a woman with some serious difficulties, he already knew about that, and he should take pity on her and pray for her. Unconsciously his fingers moved to tangle in the cord of the silver cross that hung below his throat. As always the metal felt warm to his touch. Castiel drew in a slow breath and quietly thanked God for showing him his error before it had gone too far. He closed his eyes and let the warmth and comfort spread through him, as it chased away the last red fragments of his anger. It occurred to him that Gwen might benefit from some spiritual guidance, that it might give her some relief from her afflictions, and once the idea took hold it seemed obvious that he should act.

*******

Castiel made his way to the tower before breakfast. The noise of the household, waking and stirring to life after the slumbers of the night, tracked his steps all the way along the route. The door to the tower looked like any other in the Hall, though this was the oldest part of the building. There was a small vestibule area just beyond, empty apart from the steps to one side that curved up and around the walls. The interior was bare, rough stone blocks without the plaster, paper, or wooden panelling that decorated the rest of Blackthorn Hall. The windows were little more than slits, and the meagre expanse of lead lined glass hardly allowed in any sunlight. It felt cold, damp and dingy, as if Castiel had walked through a door but entered a different world.

Once Castiel had determined a course of action he was not easily dissuaded from it. So despite his misgivings, he ignored the oppressive stillness that pressed down on his shoulders and the strange sweetly-spiced scent on the air that he could not identify. He put his head down and climbed the steep spiral of the stairs. He could not have been more than a quarter of the way up when Castiel heard the creak of a door and hushed voices from above. There was a frozen second when Castiel recognised one of the voices as Dean’s, before he lifted his head and watched Dean stumble to a stunned stop a couple of steps further up. As Castiel opened his mouth to speak and explain his presence there, he caught a look of abject horror that flickered over Dean’s face; it was followed quickly by confusion, and then finally chased away by anger.

Castiel managed to push out a, “hello, Dean,” from between his teeth.

The air went thick with tension as Dean glowered at him. It was suffocating and it made him want to cough as he drew in a breath. Dean did not speak, even though his lips twitched like there were words hidden there that wanted to be released. There was a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and Dean’s fingers dug into the muscle painfully as he hauled Castiel back down the stairs. He dragged Castiel along, even though he was not resisting, and did not stop until they were out of the tower and back on familiar terrain. A piercing laugh rang out from Gwen’s room and followed close behind them as they left.

“What the hell were you doing in there?” Dean’s voice was low and he shook Castiel lightly as he spoke. The vicious look on Dean’s face made Castiel recoil, but Dean’s hands were still on him, trembling slightly where they twisted in Castiel’s shirt and waistcoat. Castiel could not move or escape the firm grip without pushing his employer away, which he dared not do.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, “I just wanted to speak with Gwen.” Dean visibly relaxed but he did not move away.

“Why?” he asked, his tone a fraction lighter than before.

“I thought I might be able to help, she seems... troubled.”

Dean snorted. “And how do you think you could possibly help her, when no one else can?”

Castiel pulled out the small prayer book he carried with him, and held it up for Dean to see. Its leather binding was worn at the edges from constant use and the metal clasp that held it shut was a little rusted, but there was still a dull glimmer as it caught the light. Dean laughed. It was a bitter and unpleasant sound and it made something seize up in Castiel’s chest.

“You can keep your God to yourself, Cas, she can’t be saved. It’s too late for that,” Dean sneered.

Castiel ignored the insult. “It’s never too late to have faith Dean,” he argued, “and everyone deserves to be saved.” This was a side of Dean he had never seen before and it was like looking at a new creature wearing his friend's face. He was ferocious and disillusioned in equal parts, much more like the stranger Castiel had met on the road than the man he had come to know since. It was horrible and fascinating, and Castiel’s attention was caught completely in the effort to reconcile it, to understand these different parts that made up the whole of Dean Winchester.  

Dean returned Castiel’s stare for a moment, then he looked away with a sigh, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, all the fight and vim falling away in the defeated droop of his shoulders.  There was a flash of red on Dean’s wrist as his sleeve rode up. “I shouldn’t have shouted. I know you were just trying to help, but please don’t go into the tower again,” Dean said. “I’m asking you this as a friend, I don’t want to demand it of you as your employer but I will if I have to.”

Castiel nodded. “Of course, Dean, it won’t happen again.” He looked down as something moved in the corner of his vision. There was blood running down the back of Dean’s hand. It marked a red line from his cuff to his index finger, before falling in soundless drops to the floor. Castiel frowned. Without thinking he took hold of Dean’s wrist and twisted it to expose the pale underside. Dean drew in a breath, but Castiel was barely aware of it. Dean’s skin was warm as if he had been in the sun and his pulse beat in a fast patter under Castiel’s fingertips. Just above the pattern of blue veins that branched out into Dean’s hand there was a ragged cut where the skin had been ripped open. It was not a cut but a tear and blood oozed out and stained Dean’s shirt sleeve wherever it touched.

Castiel felt faint, though blood had never bothered him before. “You’re hurt,” he said stupidly as he traced the outline of the cut with his finger and wished he could heal the wound with a thought. It was horrible to think of Dean being disfigured in this way, it felt wrong.

Dean’s other hand come up to rest on Castiel’s shoulder and he could feel the heat of it where it rested close to the curve of his neck. When Castiel looked up, Dean was standing close and there was a desperate look on his face. Castiel swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat as Dean’s hand moved slightly and the tips of his fingers brushed against Castiel’s skin.

 “Cas,” Dean murmured and his gaze dropped to Castiel's mouth. Castiel felt his name on Dean’s lips like a physical pull from his chest. It closed in tight around him and Castiel was on the brink, balancing blindly for a mad second, until it was too much and he started to fall forwards.

 A metallic clang and a rattle of keys broke the moment, as Gwen locked the tower door from the inside. Dean pushed Castiel away and stepped back.

“I need to get this seen to,” Dean said without looking up. He was already walking away down the corridor and a moment later he was completely out of sight.

The prayer book was still in Castiel’s hand as he watched Dean disappear into the Hall. He pressed it to his chest as though he could force the comfort of the words it contained through his ribcage to calm and sooth the rapid pace of his heartbeat. He had no idea what had just happened. Castiel was lost, and so he clung to the little book as if it could anchor him, hold him still against the onslaught of the invisible force that had stolen all the breath from his lungs. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 9**

**Tuesday 26 th February 1844**

Ben kept Castiel busy for the whole of the day. The boy had found out that Sam had arrived at Blackthorn and was desperate to see him. The strategy he pursued in order to achieve his goal alternated between blackmail, the threat of tears, and outright begging. It was the end of the day in the school room when Becky knocked on the door, pink cheeked and harassed.

“Mr Winchester is asking for you, Mr Milton,” she said before dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sam’s with him in the study.” She bit down on her bottom lip and her eyelids fluttered. Her hand wandered quite unconsciously towards her neck to trace lightly over the skin there. Castiel found the action quite disconcerting and had to look away, the ghost-like memory of a similar touch on his own skin, still too close for comfort.

“Thank you, Becky,” he replied, “we’ll be down directly.” He expected her to leave but instead she jumped a little as her attention snapped back to the room from wherever it had wandered off to. Ben was squirming with delight in his chair.

“Oh no, Mr Milton,” she giggled, “That’s not what I meant to say.” She looked heavenward and tapped her finger on her chin while Castiel waited patiently for her to elaborate. “I was supposed to say, Mr Winchester has invited some guests over this evening on the occasion of Sam coming home, and he would be very pleased if you would join them after dinner, just you, Mr Milton, on your own.” Ben made a loud disgruntled noise followed by a long litany of complaints voiced in his mother tongue.

“I understand, thank you, Becky.”

Becky hummed a little sound of accomplishment for completing her designated task then bobbed a curtsey. “I’m to help Ellen when the visitors arrive.” She looked exceedingly pleased. “I’ve been practising, what do you think, Mr Milton?” She bobbed the curtsey again and there was only one precarious wobble as she came back up. “I might make ladies maid yet!”

Castiel gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure the ladies will be very impressed.” He really had no idea what she was talking about, but she scampered away merrily enough.

*******

Castiel loitered near the fireplace running his hand down the front of his waistcoat, smoothing the rough black material as best he could. It did not make any difference to his appearance, but at least it gave his hands something to do. He felt horribly out of place and was glad that no one was paying him any attention as he tried to blend into the background and remain as inconspicuous as possible. He was not used to being around people who displayed their wealth so obviously. Ellen had assured him he looked presentable enough. He was not tattered, but his clothes were plain and functional, not ornamental.

The only other times he had been around such highly decorated people, he been just one among many equally plain looking teachers. Back then it was the glittering benefactors who jarred against the cold cinereal stonework of St Ethelwold’s. In this company, he was the one out of place, a drab stony faced cuckoo among a flock of chirping birds of paradise. Even Dean had donned a glossy moss green waistcoat for the occasion, the pattern of the brocade picked out by the candlelight as he moved around the room charming and entertaining his guests.

"You must be Castiel?" He jumped a little at the voice. Castiel had not noticed anyone approach. This was a surprising feat, considering the size of the man he met when he turned around, finally looking away from Dean who was stuck at the card table with Mrs Fairdale. He had been throwing tortured looks in Castiel’s direction every few minutes from the moment Castiel had entered the room.

“And you must be Sam,” Castiel replied, shaking the hand that was offered. There was no doubt that this was the same man he had glimpsed from the window the day before. “I’m very pleased to meet you at last,” he added.

Sam smiled, and it lit up his youthful face. Castiel expected him to move off into the room after the perfunctory introduction, to mingle with the guests who had been invited to celebrate his visit, but instead he went and poured a couple of glasses of wine and returned. He held one out to Castiel, who accepted with only the slightest of hesitations. He was still not used to drinking alcohol. He had rarely touched it while at St Ethelwold’s, though there had been a couple of memorable visits to the local harvest fair during his youth, when he had still been susceptible to the persuasion of his peers. However, since coming to Blackthorn Hall, where drinking was a common and accepted part of everyday life, Castiel had indulged more often. 

“Do you like it here, Castiel?” Sam asked politely, taking a drink of his wine.

“Very much,” Castiel replied.

 Sam nodded and looked over towards his brother who was now trapped between Mrs Fairdale and her oldest daughter. "You’ve made quite an impression on my brother.”

“Really?” Castiel tried to keep his expression flat, but a small smile pulled up the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

Sam smiled broadly in return. “He talks about you quite often in his letters.”

This little revelation was as pleasing as it was unexpected; Castiel knew how important Sam was to Dean, and it made him feel warm that Dean would take the trouble to write about him, though it was possible that the warmth was an effect of the wine or the fact that he was standing in front of a large fire.

 “I think we get on well,” Castiel said turning away from the wider room to focus on Sam. “I had been looking for a place in a good house with a fair employer, but I’ve found more at Blackthorn than I could have hoped for.”

“And what is it that you’ve found?” Sam asked. He lifted his glass to his lips and his eyes swept once around the room, before landing back on Castiel.  

“The Hall has given me a home.” It was a simple statement, and as he said it he realised with a jolt that it was true, he did feel like he belonged here, with Ben, with Ellen, and with Dean.

“Well Blackthorn has always been my home so I can’t argue with that,” Sam replied, brushing his fingers along the edge of the mantel-piece as though he was petting something alive and responsive.   

“And I have friends here,” Castiel added, quietly looking out at the colourful panorama and immediately finding Dean among the crowd.

Sam pursed his lips and looked pensive for a moment. “Friends,” he murmured softly, and Castiel was not sure if he was supposed to have heard it or not. The conversation suddenly felt less easy than it had and Castiel wondered if he had overstepped the mark in his attempt to be honest.

“Do you like London?” he asked, as he tried to change the topic to something less personal. “I've long wished to visit. I’ve heard excellent reports of the British Museum, the gardens at Kew and of course the art galleries...” Sam smiled again and the awkward tension dropped away to disappear between the floorboards.

“I like it most of the time. It’s very busy and there are always new things to do and see. But I do miss the old place sometimes.” He slapped his hand against the side of the chimneybreast. “Dean told me that you were interested in art and have some talent yourself?”

 “I like to sketch, nothing more.” Castiel wondered what Dean had been telling his brother. He had not directly asked Dean not to speak of his paintings, but he had thought Dean understood that they were something he liked to keep private. Castiel frowned as he turned to watch Dean circle the room playing the elegant host. “It’s just a hobby.”

“I think you’re being modest,” Sam said as he swirled the dregs of his wine in the bottom of his glass, the decoration cut into its sides caught and fractured the light as it turned. “Dean told me he found them fascinating. I would very much like to see them for myself, if you don’t mind?”

Castiel could only agree. There was no rational argument against it, Dean had already seen them and Castiel should be flattered that the Winchester’s had taken such an interest in them when anyone else that had ever seen them had thought them strange or downright disturbing.

“Good,” Sam said. “Could you bring them to the study when the party is over?”  It looked as if Sam was going to say something else, but just then one of the gentlemen came over to call him away. The ladies were in need of entertainment and it was evident to Castiel that Blackthorn’s tutor was not included in the invitation. Sam rolled his eyes and begged Castiel’s forgiveness before he was whisked away, and Castiel was left to stand alone again. With nothing else to do, Castiel finished his wine and went to fetch the paintings that Sam had asked to see.

*******

An hour later, Castiel’s favourite pieces were spread out on the map table in the middle of the study. Sam examined each one in turn, picking them up and squinting at the details. Sam had also left the party early, clearly as keen to escape as Castiel had been.

“I’m glad that you like my work, Sam, but shouldn’t you be with the guests? I understood that this was organised for you.”

“Oh,” Sam laughed. “I don’t think any of them have much interest in me. Even if I wasn’t already engaged, I’m the younger brother, you know, and have to make my own way in the world.” He shrugged as if that was an explanation that Castiel should understand. He thought back to the party, to the way Mrs Fairdale and her daughters had stalked Dean from conversation to conversation, and how the Misses Clarkson had tittered and giggled at Dean’s every word, even when what he was saying was not funny. It did not seem as if Dean had enjoyed the attention all that much. He might have laughed and smiled his way around the party, charming everyone by turns, but the laughter never seemed to reach his eyes.

“Some of these themes look religious, is that intentional?” Sam asked.

Castiel looked down at the painting Sam was holding. “Not consciously, but yes I suppose so.”

“And is that important to you because you have faith, or because you don’t?”

“I do.” Castiel confirmed. “I believe that God guides me and that I follow the path he has set before me.” He thought about the tugging sensation behind his ribs that had bothered him so much at St Ethelwold’s and had put him on the path to Blackthorn Hall – he had not felt it for more than a moment in weeks. “What about you Sam?”

“I believe.”

“I don’t think your brother does.” Castiel said taking the picture from Sam’s hand and pushing it underneath the others. There was too much red and black swirled together on the page and it made Castiel uncomfortable to see it against Sam’s pale skin.

“Well he says he doesn’t, but I’m not so sure,” Sam replied. “He’s had a lot of disappointments in his life, and carried a lot of burdens that should not have been his, or at least not so soon. I think he sometimes forgets that there are good things out there as well as bad.” Sam turned to face Castiel and he looked serious for a moment, even as he pushed his long hair out of his eyes. “I haven’t seen him this content in a long time. I hope it stays that way.”

Castiel nodded. “He does seem to enjoy spending time with Ben,” he considered.

“Yes of course,” Sam laughed and slapped his palm lightly on Castiel’s shoulder, “it must be because of Ben. Dean’s always been good with children after all.” There was something unfathomable in Sam’s voice.

As if in answer to his name, Dean came barrelling through the study door, tumbling into the room in his haste. His face was flushed and his eyelids heavy with the alcohol he had quaffed continuously throughout the evening.

“Are the ladies after you, Dean?” Sam asked, catching his brother with his large hands as he stumbled towards them.

Dean rolled his eyes. “God save us all from Mothers with too many daughters on their hands.”

“Mrs Fairdale giving you trouble again then?” Sam turned to Castiel as he watched the exchange with his usual neutral expression in place. “Old lady Fairdale has been determined to catch Dean for one of her daughters. I think she’s been plotting it since before any of them were even born.” Sam explained. Meanwhile Dean had walked away to pour himself another drink of whisky from the decanter on the desk. “They are fine girls though, Dean, you couldn’t find better in the richest parts of London you know,” Sam teased.

“That’s true,” Dean answered. He waved his glass around until the liquid nearly sloshed right out of it. “But the question is, which should I pick? Maria is the prettiest, but Charlotte has more conversation, and then there’s little Cecile who plays the piano and sings like a bird, it’s an impossible choice!” Dean shrugged and slapped Sam hard on the back as he came over to stand next to Castiel at the map table. Castiel did not feel in a position to join in this joke. He knew little about women in general and even less about the Misses Fairdale and he failed to find the humour in Dean’s appraisal of Mrs Fairdale’s daughters.

Dean put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder to steady himself, as he leaned over to look at the paintings and sketches. The alcohol had made Dean warm and Castiel could feel the heat that radiated from him. It was distracting.

“What do you think, Cas?” Dean asked quietly. He was standing close and Castiel could feel the puff of Dean’s breath across his cheek. The fragrance of the liquor he was drinking was pungent and not particularly pleasant. “Which girl would you chose?” Castiel looked at Dean over his shoulder. Dean’s mouth twisted up into a smirk and the question hung between them like a challenge.

“Dean!” Sam chastised. He was watching them with his arms folded across his wide chest. There was a warning in his voice.

“Come on Cas, which girl would you pick?” Dean said again.

“I wouldn’t.” He stepped away from Dean, wanting nothing more than to be out of that room full of confusing conversations and jokes beyond his comprehension. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Sam. I hope we will have a chance to talk again during your stay.” And with that Castiel left. Their voices followed Castiel as he walked away down the corridor.

Dean snapped a sharp, “What?” followed by, “don’t look at me like that Sam, it was only a fucking joke, it’s not my fault he’s got no sense of humour.”

*******

Castiel waited upstairs, safely out of the way of the superior visitors and their finely tuned sensibilities, until he heard the telltale clatter of their carriages, as they juddered their way up the drive and away from the Hall. He hoped for all their sakes that they would not be forced to bear one another’s company again anytime soon. He understood that it was important for everyone at Blackthorn that the Winchesters maintained their standing in society. It was how the wealthy stayed wealthy after all, shaking hands over drinks and pipe tobacco, dealing out their riches with one hand and taking it back with the other, in an age old system that had become even more important now the industrialists were raising themselves up, businessmen and engineers with grease and soot beneath their broken fingernails and cash in their pockets. Castiel understood, but that did not mean he had to like it.

The clock down the corridor chimed a single dull note for one o’clock. Castiel had waited long enough. He wanted to retrieve his pictures without drawing any more attention to himself or his artworks than the Winchesters had already deemed necessary. The corridors of the Hall were in shadow now that the guests were gone. A few candles still burned here and there, flames flickering low in their sconces trying in vain to stay alive above the pools of molten wax. Tired servants dutifully cleared away the detritus of the night’s company; Castiel could hear their yawns and grumbled complaints as he went past the drawing room.

He had not taken a light of his own, he could see well enough by moonlight to perform such a quick task. Castiel’s tread was quiet as he walked the corridors in his stockinged feet, his shoes abandoned in his room to avoid the knock of them on the wooden floors.

“... tell him. He knows all these old myths and old languages, he could help.” Dean was speaking and he did not sound tipsy anymore. His voice was low, steady and serious. Lost in his own thoughts, Castiel had not realised there were people talking inside the study. He stumbled to a stop with his hand outstretched to cover the door handle, suddenly fearful of interrupting.

 “But we don’t really know anything about him,” Sam replied.

“I know enough.”

“You know enough?” Sam sounded frustrated, and Castiel could imagine him shaking his head at his brother in exasperation. “Dean, you said yourself that you thought something strange was going on.”

“I was being too suspicious, I shouldn’t have said anything. Anyway Bobby checked it out.”

A new voice was added as Bobby mumbled his agreement. “I checked into his background. His story checks out, Sam, it all seems above board as far as I can tell. No missing pieces, nothing interesting at all until he came here.”

Castiel was caught. He was aware that this would probably be considered eavesdropping, and he had never done such a thing before. He really did not intend to start now, but there was a curl of apprehension in his stomach and the temptation to stay a little longer was overwhelming.

There was a rustle of paper, and then Sam spoke again. “Can either of you explain this? You don’t just pull this stuff out of nowhere.”

“So he’s got a vivid imagination,” Dean argued, “or maybe he saw something once and forgot about it. People do that don’t they? Forget the things that they don’t understand, we see it all the time.”

“Dean, come on.”

“No, you come on.” Dean’s voice got louder. “You know how good people are at ignoring these things. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter.”

“You mean you don’t care,” said Sam. Dean grumbled a response that Castiel could not hear. “What is it with this guy Dean?” Dean stayed silent. “I haven’t seen you be so blasé about something like this in years, and we all know what happened the last time you ignored it.”

Castiel started to back away from the door, slowly, trying to remove himself from the situation without making the others aware that he could hear them. He did not know what they were talking about, but he was sure he did not want to hear any more. Blood started to thump and rush in his ears as Castiel started to panic with the need to get away; it was so loud he was amazed they could not hear it inside the study.

“Sam, no,” Dean said, his voice dropped low, threatening. “That isn’t what’s going on here.”

“Look, Castiel seems really nice and he clearly likes you a lot, and I’m glad you’re friends, Dean really.”

“Sam, no,” Dean repeated, slow and serious.

“Just be careful, if you’re wrong, then this could be dangerous to everyone, and in more ways than one.”

Whatever Dean said after that was lost as Castiel made it to the end of the corridor and escaped back to his room. He felt bad for his transgression and muttered a quick prayer asking for forgiveness for his frailty, then chastised himself for the buzz of satisfaction in his chest at the knowledge Dean considered him a friend. Castiel had not realised how much he had wanted to hear it confirmed.

There was a knock at Castiel’s door, only a little while later, and it creaked open to reveal Dean on the other side. Castiel’s paintings were in his arms. He carried them with care, his fingers curled lightly around the edges of paper and canvas.

“Oh there you are,” Dean said. He sounded surprised, even though there was nowhere else Castiel was likely to be at that time of night. “I thought you’d want these.” Castiel took the pile from him with a simple “thank you” and waited for Dean to take his leave. There was an awkward pause while Dean stood on the threshold, wide-eyed and hesitant, as though he did not know what to do with himself.

He looked over Castiel’s shoulder into the dimly lit room behind him. “This is a good room. I haven’t seen it since Ellen arranged it for you. I hope you find it comfortable?”

“Yes, I like it very much,” Castiel said, confused by the return of Dean’s formal tone. “Would you like to take a look?” he asked politely.

Dean took a step back. “No,” he said, his voice a little louder than was appropriate for the time of night.  “No, thank you. It’s late, goodnight Cas.” Dean turned and Castiel watched him walk away. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 10**

**Monday 18 th** **March 1844**

 

“Ha ha ha!”

Castiel woke. He blinked away a confused mix of images; hard reds and nebulous blues, a flash of yellow on black, fragments of a dream that resolved into nothing a moment later.

“Ha ha ha!” The sound came again and Castiel relaxed back into his bed. He heard Gwen’s laughter so often now, that it had become just another part of the night time melody of Blackthorn Hall. It did not make the sound any less odd or unsettling, a noise stained dark with something indefinable that lived in the space between madness and sanity.

The tolerance and charity shown by the household towards Gwen was of credit to them, and Castiel tried likewise, to quash any unease he felt about her presence at the Hall. Only once had he heard the maids complaining about the favouritism Gwen enjoyed, but even in their discontent, they had not abused her for her odd behaviour.

“She makes three times what we do,” Ava had grumbled as she waited near the stove for lunch to be doled out.

Becky had nodded in agreement. “She gets to sit up there all day and do whatever she wants, while we brush and scrub until our fingers bleed.”

“I don’t know what makes her so special,” Ava had griped as she picked up a bowl sitting empty nearby and sniffed at it. She pulled a face, then put it back down with a clang. “We could do it. I mean how hard can it be?” Becky hummed her assent but did not seem sure. She was about to reply when she noticed Castiel watching them. She blushed and pulled on the ties at the back of Ava’s dress to get her attention as she shushed her, nodding towards Castiel pointedly. They had moved away soon after and any further discussion was lost among the general chatter that accompanied lunchtime in the kitchens. That was the first and last time Castiel had heard anyone talk about the strange woman that lived in the tower.

“Ha ha ha!” It came again. The laugh sounded closer than normal this time, accompanied by a soft patter of unsteady steps. Castiel pulled one of the blankets up to cover his ears in a fruitless attempt to block the sound. He was tired. His sleep had been disturbed ever since the night of the irksome party. Something had changed in Castiel’s friendship with Dean and he could not fathom how or why it had come about, but Dean had become sullen and always kept a respectable distance from Blackthorn’s tutor, as befitted their positions within the household hierarchy. When Sam returned to London, Dean became even more withdrawn and rarely requested Castiel’s company in the evenings. Ellen’s company was also rejected and instead Dean spent more time with Bobby, hidden away in the study, where they could drink whiskey and puff on tobacco filled pipes uninterrupted. During those evenings, the aromatic scent of the smoke would escape into the Hall and linger long after the smouldering pipes had been extinguished. Castiel still considered Dean a friend, but the vibrancy of their interactions had faded, their conversation superficial and perfunctory, at best.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ellen had told him when Castiel had sought her advice on the matter. “Dean will get over it sooner or later, and everything will go back to normal.”

Puzzled he had asked, “Get over what?”

Ellen had looked at him for a long moment before replying. “You really are too good, Castiel,” she said, then patted his cheek, tutted, and pulled him into a quick hug. He was none the wiser about why Dean’s behaviour had changed, but he took her advice to heart and tried not to worry about it. It was easier said than done when there was nothing to distract him but the sound of Gwen running the halls in her delirium.

It was a matter of course to lock his door when he retired to bed, a habit so unconscious that Castiel could not now recall if he had actually done it. With Gwen wandering about, it was propitious to check, and so Castiel climbed out of his comfortable bed and shivered his way to the door to twist the handle experimentally. The ball of the metal handle was icy against his skin, cold almost to the point of pain. It was early spring and the nights were still cold enough to warrant a fire. Castiel glanced over at the hearth, where the coals had burned down to ash and embers, not capable of producing nearly enough heat to combat the unseasonable chill.

His clothes, discarded from the day before, were draped over a chair ready for Becky to collect and take down to the laundry in the morning. Castiel snagged his shirt and trousers as he went by and pulled them on, thankful for the extra layers as he crouched down to rekindle the fire. He heaped new coals into the grate and prodded them with the fire iron, stirring the flames back into life. Gwen’s eerie giggles accompanied the action, the sound creeping in under the door to mix with the draft that swirled around his bare ankles. The current of cold air hit the coals and flames flared up from the sudden blast of oxygen as though he had used a pair of bellows on them. In the burst of orange light, Castiel noticed a series of black smudges across the tile of the fireplace. He grabbed a candle from the desk and held it to the fire. The wick caught and came to life in a little burst of yellow. He moved the candle toward the markings and it revealed half a dozen sooty little handprints pressed haphazardly around the edges of the fire. The fingers pointed down, as if left behind by someone who had tried to climb down the chimney head first.

Possible explanations chased through Castiel’s mind. Becky? It was not like Becky to leave her job half done. Ben? Ben never came into Castiel’s room and although he was high spirited, Castiel couldn’t imagine the child would find entertainment in this. Had the chimneys been swept? Not since the autumn when a whole gang of sweeps had descended on Blackthorn. Gwen? It was possible, but then again... He held his hand over one of the prints, they were tiny and had the stubby proportions typical of a child.

The hair on the back of Castiel’s neck prickled as the temperature plummeted and his breath fogged in the air. His eyes were drawn to the window as if he was under a spell, his gaze pulled inexorably towards the small white face beyond the glass. Her mouth was agape and her eyes bulged as she screamed silently from beyond the grave. With a shout, Castiel dropped the iron and fell backwards to land on the floor with a heavy thud. He scrabbled backwards until he felt the door press against his back.

“Get away,” he cried out. She did not listen; instead she balled her hands into fists and started to bang them on the window, desperate to get inside. It was a horrific sight, and Castiel watched with increasing dread as the window started to shake in its fittings, lead and glass shifting back and forth with every thump of her clenched hands.

Castiel wanted nothing but to be away from the horror. He pushed up onto his feet and fumbled for the key that hung by the door. His gaze was fixed on the girl, but he felt the metal against his fingers and managed to pull it free and fit it into the lock. Castiel got one last glimpse of the dreadful child as the lock clicked and he dragged the door open. She was frantic and threw herself bodily against the window, as lead started to warp and glass cracked and fell in jagged shards onto the sill below. Castiel did not stay to find out what might happen next, what she would do if she managed to drag her little body over the sharp edges of the window and clamber inside, what she might say if he stood his ground and let her whisper into his ear. He turned in fear and fled the room with frigid air rushing out into the Hall after him.

He stopped near the front of the Hall to lean on the banister of the first floor landing, taking a moment to catch his breath. The carved rail was solid under his hands, reassuring as he rested his weight on it. He looked down into the darkness below as he tried to order his thoughts. Little by little, the racing beat of his heart slowed and the panic began to subside. Last time he had been able to persuade himself that the girl was not real, that it meant nothing, but now... there was no denying the truth of what he had seen, and it cast into doubt everything he had believed about the world. He believed in God and the everlasting soul, but he was not superstitious and had no time for tales of the ghosts and goblins of folklore and fairytale, had never imagined for one moment that the dead could rise from their graves to haunt the living. He was not ready to track the thought through to its conclusion. If Castiel was wrong about this fundamental truth, then what else might he be wrong about?

While the shadows of night still clung to the corners of Blackthorn, as thick and dark as Indian ink, Castiel had no intention of returning to his chamber. He decided to make his way to the school room over to the west side of the Hall; he could sit out the night there in relative comfort and he should be able to get there without disturbing anyone. Only the family rooms stood between the entrance Hall and his intended destination, and since Sam had left, there was only Dean occupying those rooms.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!” It was Gwen and she was close by. Castiel shivered. Her laugh sounded different out here, it contained something low and licentious and was nothing like the high pitched giggles he heard in his room. Without any conscious motivation or particular aim, Castiel followed the strange laughter as it faded into the distance. He went quickly through the dark corridors, chasing after her on silent feet. Each time he thought he was getting closer, she seemed to slip further away, dancing around corners and leading him along like his very own Pied-Piper, until eventually he found himself standing in the corridor that led to Dean’s room.

A thin beam of moonlight pierced the darkness at the other end of the corridor, and for a moment it fell on something that shimmered like pink silk, before it slipped away out of sight. There was a moment of total silence, as if the whole of Blackthorn was holding its breath, waiting for something, and Castiel felt adrift as he stood in the dark. There was a creak of old hinges and he turned to see a dark brume of smoke pouring out around a closed door. It twisted and billowed into the corridor, and up across the ceiling, as though it was trying to find a way outside. The sharp smell of burning hit the back of Castiel’s throat and made him cough, as he came back to his senses. There was a fire, and the smoke was coming from Dean’s room.

Castiel was at Dean’s door in the space of a heartbeat. He flung it open and stumbled inside with such force that the momentum made him overbalance and he fell to his knees. Pain jolted up his legs, but he ignored it and pushed back up onto his feet. The room was thick with smoke, but the fire had not completely taken hold. It was concentrated around the bed in the middle of the room. Tongues of flame darted around the wooden frame, leaping, climbing, and fighting their way up the curtains that hung from each side. To Castiel’s eyes they looked alive, things of evil, claws of yellow and blood red, reaching out towards Dean who was sprawled fully clothed on top of the covers. A bright scarlet gash ran in a jagged line across his forehead and into his hair. Blood dripped down the side of Dean’s face and pooled in the dip of his eye socket. It was a macabre sight.

Somewhere at the edge of his awareness, Castiel heard someone call out in alarm. The words echoed and rumbled through the Hall, waking the household. The message took on a life of its own as it moved from person to person, growing bigger and louder with each iteration, until the whole of Blackthorn was roused from their sleep. It was not until much later that Castiel would come to realise that those first calls of alarm had been his own.

Castiel pulled up the front of his shirt and pressed it into his mouth, in an attempt to keep the smoke from his lungs. His eyes stung and filled with water as he moved forward.

“Just don’t be dead,” Castiel begged of the silent and motionless figure as he got closer. The fire was all around Dean now, Castiel tried to reach for him, but the flames were too high, the heat too fierce. The hairs on Castiel’s arms burned away and his skin started to blister from the heat. He looked around, desperate to find something, anything that would help to extinguish the flames. There was a small rug on the floor near his feet, dirty with soot but not burning. He picked it up and used it to beat back the flames, suffocating and chasing them out of existence.

There was noise in the corridor. Then someone was throwing water onto the flames. Castiel was too focussed on Dean to know who was at his side. Then it happened; the fire went into retreat and there was a clear path to the man on the bed. Ignorant of the flames that licked at his hands or the glowing cinders that burned holes into his shirt, Castiel hauled Dean into his arms and away from the fire. He slumped back onto the floor, Dean was heavy, but he managed to drag him from the room and into the corridor, eventually coming to rest against the wall. Dean murmured nonsensically for a few moments before he blinked his eyes open and looked up into Castiel’s face.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said. He sounded sleepy and confused. Then he started to cough, a nasty scraping hack of a cough that drew black dust from the bottom of his lungs. “Oh God!” Dean shouted as he came back to his senses. Twisting free of Castiel’s hands, he used the wall to pull himself upright.

Bobby and the stable hands were busy extinguishing the last of the fire, checking the ruins of Dean’s room for stray cinders to damp down.

“Where’s Ben?” Dean asked, and Castiel was horrified to realise that he had no idea. He had not thought of anything apart from Dean from the moment he had seen the first speck of smoke. Castiel opened his mouth but words failed him, he had no answer to give.

Bobby rescued him from his dumbfounded silence. “Ellen went to Ben when the alarm was raised,” he said as he clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “You have Castiel here to thank for that.” The scowl on Dean’s face eased slightly but did not disappear. As Dean looked away, Bobby ducked his head close to Castiel’s ear. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t ask what you were doing here in the middle of the night.” He slapped Castiel hard on the back then moved away.

“Can you handle this?” Dean asked the Groundskeeper. 

Bobby grunted a “what do you think?” in reply.

Dean gave Castiel an appraising look, taking in his singed and soot-stained appearance. “Come with me,” he said, his voice rough and smoke damaged.  Castiel followed without question.

They went east, to the room that Sam had recently vacated. Dean grabbed an oil lamp from beside the bedside and brought it over. It was new, something Sam had sent from London, where he had grown used to the bright new gaslights that glowed on the streets of the capital.

“Gas is the future, Dean,” Sam had griped. “No one will have to make do with candles for much longer.”

“Be honest, Sammy,” Dean had replied with a grin. “You just need more light so you can check your hair in the mirror.” Sam had scowled and ignored him for the next half an hour.

The wick caught easily, and Dean replaced the glass cover, then twisted the little brass tap until the flame stretched up tall and thin to give out a bright light. He urged Castiel to sit on a low Queen Anne chair, while he poured water from a pitcher into a ceramic basin on the wash stand. Castiel watched in bemused silence, while Dean cast around looking for something. With a defeated sigh, he proceeded to untie his cravat, pulling at it until the knot unravelled and the length of while fabric fell away. It slithered serpentine from around Dean’s neck and he balled it in his hands.

Dean dipped the cloth into the water, then turned and pressed it to Castiel’s hand without uttering a word of explanation. Castiel gasped at the unexpected pain that shot up his arm, and tried to pull away, but Dean held on determinedly and he gripped Castiel’s wrist to hold him still. Castiel had not even realised that his hands were burnt. He hissed at the discomfort, as Dean cleaned the soot and debris, letting the cold water sooth his blistered skin. Water sloshed, loud in the quiet space between them, as Dean refreshed the cloth, soaking, then wringing it out and reapplying it, over and over. Dean’s touch was firm and efficient, practised, as though he had performed this task before. All Castiel could do was accept the attention and be grateful for it.

“We can’t let Ben see you like this,” Dean said in explanation as he caught sight of Castiel’s astonished look. “I don’t want him worried. In fact I’d rather he didn’t know about the fire at all, but I suppose that’s probably not possible now.” Dean’s voice faltered and a tremor ran through him making his fingers clench and release spasmodically. Castiel saw it all and he understood what was happening with a sudden sharp clarity.

Castiel could picture it vividly; fire all around a five year old Dean as he clutched his baby brother to his chest, calling out, telling him over and over that it was going to be alright, everything was going to be alright, they were going to get out, but the words were drowned out by the noise of the fire as it ripped Blackthorn apart, and they were lies anyway, because the fire was everywhere and there was no way to escape.

“Cas, are you ok?” Dean’s voice shattered the vision abruptly. His worried face came into view as Castiel looked up. He had slumped forward and Dean was holding him up, pressing him back into the chair. “Take it easy, you nearly passed out.”

“I’m sorry,”

“Don’t be,” Dean said. “Does it hurt anywhere else?” 

Castiel replied that he was fine. He could not help but notice that Dean looked disappointed. It made a strange kind of sense that Dean found comfort in putting his own needs aside and tending to others, particularly in light of the memories that the fire must have stirred up for him. The last one had not only stolen his mother, but extinguished Dean’s childhood as well, forcing him into the role of caregiver before his time, for not only his brother, but later his father, then the Hall and the Blackthorn estate.

Satisfied that he had done as much as he could with Castiel’s wounds, Dean dropped the cloth into the basin where it billowed for a few seconds in the cloudy water. “Why were you near my rooms anyway?” Dean suddenly asked.

Castiel licked his lips nervously as he recalled what had happened earlier in the night – the immediacy of the fire had pushed all thoughts of the ghost girl from his mind. He toyed with the idea of telling Dean everything that had happened, but decided against it; after all, Castiel still hardly believed it himself. “I heard something outside my room. It was Gwen I think, I wondered what she was doing out in the Hall so I followed her.” It was not a lie but it was not the whole truth either.

“You’re shaking,” Dean said. He was right. Castiel shivered and looked down at his shaking hands and tried to still them. It had little effect. The adrenaline that had moved him through the fire was wearing off and he felt cold.

Dean looked around the room. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, “stay here.” As if Castiel was in any state to get up and leave. Dean returned carrying a bottle and two glasses. Leaning against the edge of the washstand he handed a glass to Castiel, pulled the stopper from the bottle and poured out a large measure of whiskey, first into Castiel’s glass then his own.

“I don’t really drink.” Castiel sniffed and frowned at the tawny coloured liquid. He swirled it round a few times watching the way it coated and clung to the sides of the glass as it settled. 

“Its medicine... it’ll help.” Dean nodded encouragingly and Castiel acquiesced. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a tentative sip. He grimaced at the harsh burn in his throat when he swallowed, but was rewarded by a huff of laughter from Dean. “Come on, it’s not that bad,” he said with a smile.

“How do you think it started,” Castiel asked, turning back to the matter of the fire.

Dean shrugged. “Must have knocked a candle over,” he said, as though the cause of a fire that had put the whole house at risk did not matter. He lifted a hand and ran the pads of his fingers over the graze along his hairline. The cut was not as bad as it had looked when Dean was laid out on the bed, still as death. Head wounds always bled a lot, or at least that was what Bobby had said when he had come over and wiped the worst of the blood from Dean’s face with a handkerchief pulled from his pocket.

“Don’t you think...?” Castiel hesitated but the suspicion was too strong to let it go. “Don’t you think that Gwen had something to do with it... perhaps?”

Dean snorted derisively. “Why? Do you think I am such a poor Master that the servants wish to murder me in my bed?”

“No of course not,” Castiel protested. “But she was here, and she is... afflicted. She might not know what she’s doing?”

Dean looked down into his glass as though he hoped to find answers at the bottom of it. “No, Cas,” he said firmly, “I was just careless, it’s my fault, no one else’s.”

Castiel took another drink. It tasted better now; there was less burn and more warmth as it spread through his body and the shivering eased off. Dean looked at him steadily, his green eyes peering over the top edge of his glass while he drank. There was still dried blood and a smear of soot across Dean’s forehead - a reminder of how close they had come to disaster.

Dean jumped slightly as Castiel stood up. There was a glimmer of something in Dean’s eyes and he tensed as though he might run. He put his glass down on the table beside him with deliberate slowness as he watched Castiel, but Castiel did not approach. Instead, he pointed to the chair he had just vacated.

“Please sit down Dean,” he asked quietly.

Dean did not take his eyes from Castiel as he inched around him carefully, wary, as if Castiel were a dangerous animal that might attack at any second. Castiel picked up the length of cloth from the dirty water and dunked it into what remained in the pitcher. Dean was wide-eyed and uncomprehending, as he watched Castiel repeat his own action from just a few minutes before.

The last of the dried blood came away easily as Castiel dabbed at it, turning the cloth pink, then red, until he rinsed it out. He bundled up the material so that the cleanest part was on the top, and ran it down the side of Dean’s face to gather up the last of the soot that lingered there in thin smears. Castiel’s fingertips smarted and tingled where they caught on the stubble on Dean’s chin, and Castiel wondered abstractedly why his blistered fingers were not hurting more.  Dean’s mouth hung open in a picture of outright astonishment as Castiel continued his ministrations.

Dean hissed and tried to move away when Castiel dabbed whisky onto the cut.

“Its medicine,” Castiel said, and Dean laughed in return. It was a real laugh, deep and full despite the smoke roughened edges, and it warmed Castiel more than the alcohol ever could. Suddenly he felt compelled to tell the truth about what had led him out into the Hall that night. Castiel did not want secrets to cloud their friendship, to taint something he wanted so much. “There is something else.” Castiel swallowed nervously. Surely honesty was the best option, even if Dean thought he was a madman afterwards. “I did follow Gwen to your room, but she wasn’t the reason I left my room.” Dean was looking at him intently, and there was a faint flush developing on his neck. “I left my room because I was afraid... I saw something I can’t explain.” Castiel took a breath, then ploughed on with determination. “I know this probably sounds like madness, but I think the Hall might be haunted.” Of all the reactions Castiel expected it was not for Dean to laugh. But that was exactly what happened. “Dean I’m serious.”

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said. “But the Hall is definitely not haunted.” He laughed again but caught sight of Castiel’s wounded look. “Ok then, tell me what you saw.”

And so Castiel did. He told him of the little girl from the sketchbook, what had happened earlier that night, and what had happened before. As Castiel told the story, Dean’s face became less amused and more serious. Castiel took it as a sign that he was at least willing to believe what he was saying without calling his sanity into question.

Dean held his hand up at one point. “No. That can’t be right,” he said, almost to himself. He leaned forward and put a hand on Castiel’s arm. “Did anything else happen? Anything at all that was out of the ordinary? It doesn’t matter if it seemed unimportant at the time. Was there an unusual smell, or did things move about on their own? Has anyone you don’t know tried to approach you or offer you anything when you’ve been outside the Hall, in Crossthorpe maybe?” Dean’s manner was intense and urgent as Castiel shook his head.

“Wait,” Castiel said, as the recollection hit him. “Yes, it went cold, very cold and there were  handprints, little handprints round the fireplace,” he said, looking at his own hand where there were still traces of soot between his fingers and under his fingernails despite Dean’s care in cleaning them.

Castiel flinched as Dean snapped a hand out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing tight.

“You saw these marks inside the house?” Dean asked.

“Yes.”

“Has there been anything else like that, inside your room?”

“There were some footprints a while ago, around the room and sometimes my things are moved around when I’m not there, but I always assumed that was just Becky or Ava.”

“Yes, it probably was.” Dean said chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “But, Cas if anything like this happens again, you have to tell me, ok? Or if I’m not here tell Bobby, he’ll know what to do.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

Dean smiled enigmatically. “One problem at a time, Cas,” he said, standing and adding, “Though perhaps we should thank this little ghost of yours, since she seems to be the reason I’m not currently burnt to a cinder.” There was a pause and Dean’s gaze travelled over Castiel’s face. It was a slow considered look that lingered when it reached his mouth. “Though on second thoughts, I think I’d rather thank you for it,” he said and slid his fingers into the hair at the back of Castiel’s neck. He twisted them slightly, pulling on the soft dark strands so that Castiel was forced to tip his head back as Dean moved in and pressed his lips over Castiel’s. It was quick, fleeting, a press of skin on skin, there and gone again in a heartbeat. “Thank you,” Dean whispered. He was so close that Castiel felt the words breathed across his skin, and the ghosts of them lingered as Dean turned and walked away.


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11**

**Wednesday 10 th April 1844**

 

Ben and Castiel were politely but firmly instructed to keep to the east wing of the Hall as much as possible while repairs were carried out. Prompt action had prevented the spread of the fire and Dean’s rooms had borne the brunt of the damage. However, trails of greasy smoke and sooty residue had spread far beyond, working their way into every nook and cranny, and darkening surfaces like permanent shadows anywhere they touched. Dealing with the aftermath had put Ellen in the foulest of moods and she snipped and scolded everyone that came within range, including the small army of carpenters that had been pressed into service to rip out the blackened interior and repair and replace what they could.

A couple of extra girls were called in from Crossthorpe to work on the cleaning alongside Becky and Ava, and Ellen drove them on with hard words and harder looks until the job was done. Becky and Ava griped about the presence of the interlopers, and indeed Castiel was no less doubtful of the girls’ motivations for being there, as he watched them cast longing gazes and gentle sighs in Dean’s direction whenever he happened by. Failing to attract any kind of attention from the Master of Blackthorn, one of them decided to lavish their attentions on the tutor instead, and took to showing up wherever Castiel and Ben happened to be, claiming she had lost her way. Whenever Castiel ran into her in the corridors, she would slide by, looking up at him in the most unsubtle and coquettish way imaginable. Eventually Castiel could not take any more and just turned around and went the other way as soon as he saw her approaching – much to Becky and Ava’s amusement as they sniggered behind their hands and threw Castiel knowing looks as he made his escape.

Dean was kept busy managing the repairs, as well as the regular business of the estate. Circumstances did not allow Castiel to spend much time in his company, but when they were together, it was warm and affable and Castiel rejoiced in the return of their former friendship. Though Dean was uncharacteristically wary around Castiel when there were other people around. But that was fine. If Dean preferred to keep their friendship private, it was of no concern to Castiel, particularly when there were strangers in the Hall who might misunderstood the informality of interactions at Blackthorn Hall.

As for the elusive Gwen, Ellen had told Castiel in hushed tones the day after the fire that a London physician was to be called to see to her.

“I think she was more unwell than any of us suspected.” Her hands played across the folds of her skirts as she talked. She had taken it hard, as though she should have predicted that something bad was going to happen. “If you hadn’t been there we could have lost everything,” she said with tears in her eyes, “I said once that you were a godsend, and now I really believe that it’s true.” Castiel had blushed as she embraced him. He had never seen her so distraught and he disliked it immensely.

“What will happen to Gwen now?” he asked, moving the conversation onto surer ground.

“She’ll be confined to the tower until she’s fully recovered, and we’ll do whatever the doctor thinks is best when he comes. Sam will arrange for the doctor and all will be well,” she squeezed Castiel’s shoulder, “the Hall will be fixed and we’ll all go on as we did before, safe and sound.”

It was clear that Ellen also believed Gwen was responsible for the fire – however determined Dean was to deny it. Castiel could not understand his strange reluctance to acknowledge Gwen’s culpability, but he would not be moved on the matter, and friends though they were, Castiel did not think it was his place to push the issue.

*******

Until the matter of the ghost girl could be resolved Dean invited Castiel to take up temporary residence in one of Blackthorn’s guest rooms. The room was much finer than he was used to and decorated to cater to the tastes of those of wealth and consequence, though it was perhaps a few decades past being fashionable. Castiel had gratefully accepted the offer, although he did worry that Dean would think him a coward.

 Dean had just laughed at the idea. “Cas, there isn’t a house in Crossthorpe, or a croft in the hamlet that doesn’t have shoes hidden in the walls to ward off evil spirits,” Dean teased. “You’re lucky if you’ve never been scared before, around here we’re all terrified most of the time. You must have heard the stories by now.”

When Ellen arrived one morning to inform Castiel that he could return to his old room, he was not exactly eager to go.

“The window is all fixed up for you,” she said, leading him up the stairs with quick steps. “Dean had one of the Crossthorpe men see to it while they were here.” She was carrying a small wooden box in her hands.

Castiel was nervous as he went inside. He expected to feel the chill of the last time he had been there, for his breath to condense and his skin to pimple, but there was nothing. The room had been cleaned, a fire hiccupped to itself in the grate, and the window was not only whole, but now adorned with its own small set of curtains. It was warm and welcoming and familiar.

“Do you like them?” She went over and loosed the curtains from their ties so that they fell shut, completely blocking the window from view. “It was Dean’s idea to put them up.” She set the wooden box down on his desk. “And he asked me to give you this as well, just in case,” she said with a reassuring wink. She removed the lid of the box and Castiel peered inside at the contents.

“Is that... salt?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s been used for centuries to keep out spirits,” she said.

“Like shoes in the walls?” He asked.

She smiled at Castiel’s rather doubtful look. “Well no, it’s not exactly the same. Don’t worry Castiel, you’re not the first person to be troubled by those who should be long gone, and I doubt you’ll be the last. There are folks that would swear on the bible that a pair of lovers haunts the causeway over near Thrushcross Grange,” she said with a dramatic sweep of her hand. “They’ve been seen cavorting on the moors on many a night, and by many a sober and reliable man.”

“So you do think it’s a spirit then?” Castiel was relieved beyond measure that people were taking it seriously, because when he thought about it, he started to doubt himself.

“Seems to be the case. Bobby asked around, just to check if there were any little girls in the neighbourhood like the one in your picture, but no one recognised the description. So for my part yes, I believe she’s a spirit and a sad little one at that.”

“Sad?” He shuddered at the terrifying memory of her gaping mouth and pounding fists.

Ellen nodded and hummed while she took a fist full of salt and let the grain run in a thin stream from her hand. “The dead often have something to teach the living. She may not be what she seems. We don’t know if she intends you any harm or not, not until we can work out who she is – and it looks like that is something that you need to think about.”

“Me? Why?”

“Well she isn’t from the Hall, Castiel.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ellen sighed and moved closer, putting a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Then you haven’t been listening to what I’ve said. No one here, or from nearby here, knows this child. There haven’t been any ghosts at the Hall in a long time, and these things don’t just pop up out of nowhere for no reason.” She paused and Castiel nodded, though he still was not sure he understood. “If you’re the only one seeing this girl, there must be a reason for it, and that reason can only be to do with you.”

“I don’t know her,” Castiel said firmly. He did not like the direction this conversation had taken.

Ellen squinted up at him. “Perhaps you do, perhaps you don’t, but think on it, Castiel. Spirits don’t latch onto people willy-nilly, even up here in the wilds.” She turned to the box of salt lying open on the table. “For now let’s hope she’s gone, and if she does show herself again, this is what you do.” She pulled another handful of salt from the box and let it fall all the way along the windowsill. “Make a line across the windows, doorways, and the fireplace,” she instructed, moving with practised efficiency. “Make sure the line is solid, and as long as it stays in place, the spirit can’t cross it. I think that will be enough to keep your little ghost at bay for now – but let me know if anything happens, Castiel, there might be other measures we can take. And think on it. If we can find out who she is, we can put the poor little thing to rest, as she should be.” She left him then with nothing but a box of salt for company and a question hanging low over his head. 

*******

The air was fresh; it smelt of new shoots of grass and a recent shower of rain. Castiel walked to Crossthorpe with the intention of ending up at the Church. It was busy at the Hall and it had been a while since he had just sat and reflected in quiet contemplation and prayer. What he had found at Blackthorn was more than he could ever have hoped. Ellen, Ben, Bobby, they all enriched his life in different and unexpected ways. And then there was Dean, bright, golden, and incredibly confusing, right at the centre of it all, handing him friendship without hesitation or disguise. Castiel had a lot to be thankful for.

He walked the now familiar route through the cobbled streets of Crossthorpe, and watched the people going to and fro about their business, nodding in greeting to those he recognised. In the square, a small group of entertainers performed for the crowd, musicians and tumblers that toured from town to town to earn a crust with dance and song. A pretty dark haired girl twirled and spun in jewel coloured skirts that flared as she moved. Her feet skipped a complex pattern of steps, and strings of silver bells around her wrists and ankles flashed white in the sun, and jangled in time to the music of the fiddler beside her.

It was fascinating, and Castiel paused with the rest of the crowd to watch for a while. He had not heard much music, other than the hymns of the congregation and the choir at church on Sundays, and with the best will in the world that was not always the most joyful of sounds. This was different. The girl moved with a wide smile on her face as though the music was in her soul instead of her ears, as though she danced because she wanted to, whether there was an audience to see it or not. It was a pleasure to watch and he felt joy on her behalf as she tapped out a rhythm that seemed to echo the beat, beat, beat, of Castiel’s heart.

As the song drew to a close, there was a scattered round of applause and people went up to drop coins into an old frayed hat set on the ground in front of the pair of performers. Castiel added a few coins of his own to the collection as he went by. The girl was smiling broadly, happy with the few pennies they had made, and from the corner of his eye Castiel saw her spin in a quick graceful circle and bounce onto her toes to press her mouth to the fiddler’s waiting lips. It was a fast and feather light touch, but the girl and the boy both blushed and giggled.

The sight stirred a memory of another kiss, another quick contact of mouth to mouth, and Castiel’s heart beat faster. It was not the same. It did not mean the same thing as it did between the two lovers that walked away across the square with their hands entwined. Castiel had considered it before and dismissed it. The night of the fire had been nothing but a series of intense and confusing events, so it had not been hard to bury the kiss along with everything else. It was not even a kiss really, just a gesture. Relief and gratitude and comfort bound up in simple human contact. Wasn’t it?

He was normally alone in the church, but today there was someone standing in the aisle looking up at the carved figure of Christ over the altar. It was Dean. The spring sun filtered in through the stained glass window in front of him, and it fell on and around him in colour, catching on motes of dust that sparkled for a moment of glory, then disappeared. He looked ethereal in the warm glow, and it stopped Castiel in his tracks.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Dean said without turning around. “Will you come back to the Hall with me?” His tone was formal again.

“Is there something wrong?” Castiel asked.

“No.” Dean turned and his face told a different truth. “Ben’s fretting. I have to go away on business again and now he won’t to speak to me. He’s upset and he wants you.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel replied. Though he had no idea what he was sorry about, due to the heavy weight that was suddenly pressing down beneath his ribs and making it difficult to breath. He swallowed. “Will you... will you be gone long?”

“I hope not.”Dean looked down at his shoes. “Three months perhaps, I need to arrange the sale of some overseas properties, I can’t do it from here, I tried but it’s not possible.”

Castiel should have known that Dean would not stay at the Hall long term, Ellen had told him as much many times over, but still it felt like a sudden blow.

“I will pray for your safe passage,” he said and Dean snorted in response, ever the non-believer. “Can I have a few minutes?” Castiel asked gesturing towards the pews.

“Of course, I brought the carriage anyway, so it won’t take long to go back. Take as long as you need.”

Dean turned his back and Castiel slid between the wooden benches, glad for a few moments of calm to get the roiling sensation in his stomach under control. Ben needed him, needed comfort, and Castiel could not offer it if he was suffering from the same cause. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against his clasped hands. All he could manage was to mutter a few formulaic words of prayer, the sort that had been drummed into him over years of daily worship. But his heart was drumming out its own dedication, free of scripture and tradition. Dean, it said, and pushed the name into his veins until it pulsed through his body and he had to bite back a gasp from the pain. This was not supposed to happen.

“Cas,” Dean’s voice was low as it rolled through the air towards Castiel. He had moved silently into the pew behind and Castiel felt Dean’s breath puff hot on the back of his neck. “The fire could have been bad, really bad.”

“I know,” Castiel whispered back.

“You saved me.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?” There was a pause, then Castiel heard a soft wet noise as if Dean had licked his lips. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

“When you first saw the fire, you could have gone for help, you should have gone for help, but you didn’t. You risked yourself and the Hall to get me out. I just want to know why?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.”

“You could have been hurt... you were hurt.”

Castiel opened his eyes and looked at his hands; they had healed quickly and well. “Better I than you,” Castiel shrugged. There was a long pause and Castiel thought the conversation was over, but then Dean’s voice came again.

“Cas, if I asked you to do something for me, would you do it?”

“Of course, Dean.”

“What if I asked you to do something for me that was wrong?” Castiel frowned, trying to think of a way to answer the question, but Dean spoke again. “But I already know your answer, because you couldn’t do something that was really wrong could you?” Dean laughed, it was a bitter sound that ripped a jagged hole in the stillness of the nave. “Cas, do you believe in redemption?”

“Yes, of course. If you have sinned you can be redeemed,” Castiel said. “God is forgiving. You should have more faith, Dean.” Castiel felt the warmth of Dean’s body moving away.

“Come on, let’s go. I want us all to spend the evening together while we can. Even Bobby says he’ll clean his boots for the occasion and we wouldn’t want to miss that once-in-a-lifetime event. And we have an addition to our group,” Dean said as he sat back against the wooden seat. His tone was casual and there was a false looking smile on his face where a real one should have been. “Jo Harvelle is visiting her mother. Have you met her yet?”

“No, though I’ve heard much of her from Ellen,” replied Castiel.

“Yes I expect you have. She’s a nice girl, lively and opinionated, pretty too. You should make an effort.” Dean slapped him on the back in a rough kind of affection that Castiel did not quite believe.  


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 12**

**Wednesday 10 th April 1844**

 

Dean’s imminent departure from Blackthorn hovered at the edges of Castiel’s life like a storm cloud that threatened to rush in and cover the world. He was being ridiculous, Dean had only been at Blackthorn for a few months and Castiel had been quite content before, and he would be quite content again. He told himself it was just the suddenness of it that had knocked him off balance, just concern for a friend about to set out on an arduous journey. It did not make him feel any better.

The party that adjourned to the drawing room after dinner that night was not altogether a happy one. Ben was disgruntled and made no attempt to hide it. It had taken bribery to get him to come downstairs at all, and even as he harassed the dogs by the fire as per usual, he shot angry looks at Dean at regular intervals, and when that proved ineffectual, he aimed them at Castiel instead, as though he was somehow culpable for Dean’s actions.  

Dean, Ellen, and Bobby spent the evening talking together in solemn voices. They were serious and attentive, and it was not much of a stretch to realise they were discussing the details of Dean’s absence. Blackthorn Hall must continue to run without its Master in residence, and it went without saying that Ellen and Bobby would be trusted with the task, and it could not be in safer hands.

The usual party was expanded that night to include Joanna Harvelle. She was, as Dean had described her, a friendly, lively young woman, and yes, she was also very pretty. She had decided it was her job to keep Castiel entertained while the others “talked shop” as she put it. They sat side by side on a small cream coloured couch and chatted about nothing important. Joanna was brusque in her manner, perhaps even more so than her mother, which was quite a feat in itself. It was also quite incongruous with her job as a ladies maid; Castiel had always been under the impression that ladies maids were required to be reserved and demure at all times. Castiel could not picture Jo in that role at all. The only sign of her station was in her dress. She was well turned out and fashionable, and her long blond hair was coiled and pinned into an intricate design of loops and curls that fell down to frame her face. Castiel was glad to have her company. Her casual chatter and stories about her Mistress were entertaining, if perhaps a little indelicate, and it proved a good distraction from the gloomy mood poised to descend on him every time he looked up and found Dean staring back.

 There was a light tap on Castiel’s foot as Jo knocked her shoe against his. Castiel’s attention had wandered back to Dean again, and he had no idea what Jo had been talking about for the last few minutes.

“If it’s any comfort, I don’t think he’ll be gone very long this time,” she said.

“I don’t know why you would think that,” he said. It came out sounding rather more petulant than he was comfortable with. “Your mother told me that Dean often leaves Blackthorn for half a year at a time, and he was away for longer than that the last time.”   

“Well I don’t know for sure, Castiel,” she said. “But I’ve never seen Dean so reluctant to leave before, and I’ve known him all my life. He used to get restless after a month at home. I guess I always thought it was just his way, you know? That it was his nature to always be on the road because of how he was brought up.” She turned to look at him, but Castiel kept his gaze on the arm of the couch where his fingers toyed with a few frayed threads. “I never saw any one so changed.”

“Well, it is a long journey and the sea crossing can be dangerous, perhaps that explains his reluctance,” Castiel reasoned.

“He never worried much about the dangers before,” she said. Her eyes slid over his face contemplatively.

“But it’s only right that he be worried, he should be, because there are other people who worry about him, other people who need him to be safe, and he has a responsibility to them.” Castiel replied. He flushed and could not tell if it was the unexpected vehemence of his words or the wine that made his cheeks prickle with heat.

Jo’s eyebrows arched up towards her hairline in surprise. “Is that so?”

“Yes of course,” he explained. “Obviously there’s Sam and Ben...”

“Obviously.”

“... but there’s Bobby, Ellen, all the tenants on the estate and, well... everyone at Blackthorn really,” he finished in a rush.

Jo regarded him for a long moment. She drummed her fingers against her deep blue skirts, her neat fingernails each flashing in the candlelight as they fell in a little ripple of movement. “So, do you think he shouldn’t go? That it isn’t worth the risk? From what I understand this deal is worth a lot of money, enough to secure the Hall for a lifetime.”

 “It’s not up to me to direct or dictate how the Master of Blackthorn conducts his business. But I do think that Dean underestimates his own value.” He was becoming irate. “His value lies in who he is, not how much money he has or how many people he employs.”

She hummed lightly at the back of her throat, then pressed her hand softly over his. “As I said, Castiel, if he does go, I think he will be back very soon.” She looked over towards Dean and there was something soft and wistful there before she turned back to Castiel to refill his wine glass. Castiel did not protest, the alcohol was comforting and it eased the dull ache in his chest and the worry that gnawed in the pit of his stomach.

“How about a game, Jo?” Dean called suddenly. “I seem to recall you saying something about how you could beat me with one hand tied behind your back, or have you come back to your senses since the last time I saw you?” He beamed at them as he strode over, but Castiel could still see the tension in the way Dean hunched his shoulders. He offered Jo his arm in exaggerated gallantry. “Oh and before I forget, Jo, do stop bothering my tutor.”

“Funny,” Jo replied sarcastically. “I do apologise, I hadn’t realised he was your tutor. I assumed he was Ben’s, but then again you always were something of a dunce, so it does make sense.” She turned to Castiel and politely enquired, “And how do you find Mr Winchester as a student, Castiel? Does he study hard, or is he a hopeless case?”

“Hilarious Jo,” Dean groused.

“He must be a terrible nuisance, Castiel, but don’t forget, if he misbehaves, there’s always the cane.” She laughed as Dean turned red and led her from the room. Castiel looked on bemused.

Castiel was expecting them to sit down at the card table in the brightly lit games room, but instead Jo picked up a billiard cue from the rack, testing the weight of it in her hands until she was satisfied. Castiel should not have been surprised. Societal norms had no place within the walls of Blackthorn.

Ellen tutted in the background, as Dean and Jo bantered back and forth in a constant stream of bragging about their skills. Eventually, Ellen could stand no more of their insults and bid them all goodnight as she carted away a loudly protesting Ben. They were entertaining to watch, and their interaction reminded Castiel of the way Dean was with Sam. Their manners were relaxed, an easiness born of long acquaintance and mutual regard.

They played three games and much to Jo’s annoyance Dean beat her in two of them. When she had had enough, she stomped off, sticking her tongue out at him in disgust making Bobby laugh in the process.

“You think you can do better old man.” She said, as she passed the cue to Bobby. “Then please by all means prove it.” She swallowed down another glass of wine and made a point of refreshing Castiel’s before she also retired for the night. Bobby was not far behind her, muttering under his breath all the way into the Hall, when Dean beat him easily in the first game.

Castiel watched Dean for a few minutes and wondered if he should also take his leave, but Dean did not show any sign of moving from the games room, and Castiel was reluctant to leave him alone. Ellen had left a book abandoned on a chair nearby, a Henry Fielding novel, not really to Castiel’s taste but he flicked through it anyway while he listened to the regular clack of the billiard balls as Dean practiced.

It was the absence of that distinctive noise that made Castiel look up from the page. He found Dean leaning casually against the carved oak edge of the table, one ankle crossed over the other.

"Have you ever played?" Dean asked.

Castiel glanced at the table, then back to Dean."Billiards?"

"No cricket." Dean deadpanned, then looked up to the heavens in mock despair. "Yes, of course, billiards, Cas, what the hell else would I be talking about?" 

"Oh.” Castiel replied. “No never." It should have been obvious that he would not have had the opportunity to learn such a thing – games were not exactly encouraged at St Ethelwold’s.

Dean walked over and plucked the book from Castiel’s hands. He flicked through a few pages, grimaced in disapproval at the choice of reading materiel, then put it open and face down on a table nearby.

"Well, Cas, as your employer, I feel that it is my duty to rectify this terrible deficiency in your education. Come on," Dean called over his shoulder.

Dean handed Castiel a cue, and he looked at it suspiciously as Dean started to explain the rules of the game; how to hold the cue; and how to line up a shot to cannon or pocket the ball. Castiel barely understood what Dean was saying, but he was an enthusiastic teacher and Castiel, eager to please, attempted to follow the directions he was given. His execution was poor and no match for an experienced player like Dean, who beat him soundly on every game, even when he tried to let Castiel win — it wasn’t much of a subterfuge.

"You can’t go until we finish the game.” Dean said as he caught the concerned look on Castiel’s face when the clock on the mantle chimed twice. It was much later than he had thought. “I don’t want to have to insist on it, but I will if you make me.” One eyebrow twitched upwards to take any potential sting from Dean’s words.

“This has to be the last game,” Castiel replied. “I still have lessons with Ben tomorrow morning.” He looked down at the table, squinting as he tried to work out the best angle to strike the cue ball. Castiel really was not very good at this game, but he could practice; perhaps improve in Dean’s absence so he would be a more challenging opponent by the time he returned. The prospect pleased him, and he glanced up at Dean as he started to line up the next shot. He was being watched closely.

“That’s still not quite right,” Dean said with a small shake of his head. His face looked oddly flushed and he swallowed nervously, making his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat. “Here, like this.” Castiel stood up waiting for Dean to appear at his side and give further instruction. Instead, Castiel’s breath stuck in his throat as he felt Dean press close behind him. He tried to focus on the cue in his hand, on the way the candlelight reflected on the polished wood of the table edge, the way the fire snapped and crackled in the background. He tried to focus on anything but the way Dean’s chest pushed flush against his back, and the sudden spike of heat that it caused low in Castiel’s belly.

“Like this,” Dean said. His voice had dropped low and quiet, so quiet that Castiel could hear the hiss of a candle as it burned out, the flame drowned in melted wax. Dean stretched his arms out alongside Castiel’s and there was pressure from Dean’s fingers as he worked to adjust Castiel’s grip on the cue. Their fingers entwined for a moment and Castiel felt Dean freeze at the contact. There was a strained moment as Castiel realised he was trapped in the small space between Dean and the table, the cue acting as a barrier on the other side.

“Cas?” was all Dean said. It was breathed more than spoken and it fell on Castiel’s cheek like a caress. It was a question and a statement all in one.

 

Castiel could not move. His mouth dropped open as though he was going to say something, say that he felt strange, too hot, dizzy, that he needed some air, but the words did not come because they were not true. It was not strange at all; this was how he always felt when Dean was close to him, and it was unsettling and completely irresistible in equal measure. The revelation hit Castiel full force. He gasped as his heart thumped against his ribs as though it might punch through his chest. There was nothing left to do but act and give in to the want that coursed through his veins and ran under his skin in bright silver sparks where Dean pressed against him. 

The world slowed. Castiel turned his head, and blue eyes latched onto green. Their breath mingled in the tiny gap between them for a moment, then Castiel tilted his head back just a fraction of an inch, and his lips were on the corner of Dean’s mouth. It was only half a kiss, sweet and almost innocent, a lot like the kiss they had shared after the fire, only this time, Dean did not pull back to break the contact. Instead he pressed forward, moving in until their mouths slanted together neatly. Castiel’s eyes closed and in the darkness the simple push and slide of Dean’s mouth was intense, intoxicating, and a needy sound bubbled up from deep in his throat. It passed through his mouth and into Dean’s, communicating some longing or desire that spurred him into action.

The world sped up again as Dean pulled the cue from Castiel’s hands and discarded it, letting it drop onto the table where it rolled with a clack and clatter into the billiard balls, sending them bouncing from cushion to cushion at the far side of the table. Dean stepped back just far enough to spin Castiel around by his shoulder so that they stood facing each other, just a whisper apart. Dean’s face was flushed, his lips stained a darker hue than usual, and his eyes dusky and hungry as he stared at Castiel.

They met again in a clumsy push and pull of hands and bodies. Kisses intensified into a mess of clashing teeth and lips made wet and slippery from the eager press of tongues. It was instinctual and mindless. Castiel’s hands roamed up and down Dean’s sides, and then slid across the broad expanse of his back, moving with a restless compulsion. He wanted to touch all of Dean at once, to feel him hot and solid under his hands, to drag him in closer and to hold him still all at once. Castiel pushed his tongue into Dean’s mouth, licked and tasted him with the desperation of a dying man who needed it to live. Castiel was lost, near senseless with the burn of Dean so close, but Dean’s hands were firm and held him up, so that he could not tear apart as desire flooded into him, filling him up.

Dean started to pull at Castiel’s clothes as he dropped bruising kisses onto his mouth. Warm hands found their way up and under his shirt to scratch across Castiel’s back until he was nearly trembling from the attention. In return Castiel sucked and bit at the line of Dean’s throat. Castiel wanted more, wanted skin under his fingers, wanted to claim Dean’s and mark him with his teeth, animalistic and primal. He could feel the beat of Dean’s heart in the pulse that fluttered beneath his shirt collar and Castiel pulled at it, almost frantic with the need to feel the rushing blood under his tongue. There was a ripping sound, and Dean’s shirt came apart in his hands as buttons scattered over the baize of the billiard table or fell to the floor.

A low growling noise vibrated in the back of Dean’s throat at the display of aggression, and he used the weight of his body to force Castiel back, until the edge of the table dug into the back of Castiel’s thighs. Dean pinned him there and pressed forward until it became painful, and Castiel hissed at the sensation. Dean stared into Castiel’s face for a second before he wrapped his arms around his waist and half lifted half pushed him up off the floor. Before he knew what was happening, Castiel was sitting on the green surface with Dean bracketed snug between his knees.

They looked at each other and what they had wrought. Red flushed faces, swollen lips and mussed hair told a story without words. Castiel’s fingers traced the dips and peaks of Dean’s neck and toyed with the cord of the pendant he wore, a little horned icon, always hidden from view until now. Dean’s hands were on Castiel’s thighs and it was unclear whether he was trying to hold Castiel there or hold himself up as he swayed slightly, rocking forwards onto the balls of his feet. Castiel opened his mouth as though he was going to speak, but no words came. There was nothing that could describe the wave of want that crashed through his veins and swept downwards, blood pumping and pushing up the swell of his erection.

The air practically sizzled it was so thick with the charge they were building between them; it was like the feeling before a summer storm, heavy and waiting to break. Dean shifted between Castiel’s knees, moving in closer. Dean looked no more in control of himself than Castiel, his green eyes dark with lust, and Castiel wondered if his own looked like that, gloriously wanton. Dean licked his lips as he pressed in and slid his hands up Castiel’s thighs, skimming lightly over the bulge at his crotch and coming to rest over the curve of his hips.

“Do you want this?” Dean asked. His tongue darted out on the whispered words to swipe across Castiel’s bottom lip. It made Castiel shiver. “Cas, I need you to tell me that you want this.” Castiel was inexperienced, not naive or stupid, and he knew exactly what Dean was asking.

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel replied simply, “I do.”

Dean slanted his body over Castiel’s, catching his mouth as he forced Castiel back onto the green felt surface. When Dean pulled back, they were connected for a moment by a thin trail of saliva and Dean dipped his head to follow it back down and lick it from the soft edge of Castiel’s lips. Castiel looked up as Dean rolled his hips forward and down in a slow arc. They were perfectly aligned, and Castiel arched up off the table as the action brought them together, cocks bumping and rubbing in a torturous glide. Even through the layers of cloth between them, it sent fire sparking through Castiel’s veins and left him panting for more.

Dean carded his fingers through Castiel’s dark hair and tugged on it until Castiel looked up at him. Dean was breathless and flushed pink, but in what was left of the candlelight, he looked golden, imbued with a light of his own that covered his bronzed skin and spread out over Castiel’s fingers wherever they touched.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Cas,” Dean murmured, as he leaned in to press the words into the skin of Castiel’s neck. “When we met out on the road, I didn’t think you could be real, I thought you must be... I thought I’d imagined you.” Castiel pulled him down into a kiss, sucking on his tongue and cutting off whatever Dean was going to say next.

Dean’s hand fumbled at the fastening on Castiel’s waist then slipped inside. Castiel’s senses failed him for a moment as Dean’s fingers surrounded hardened flesh and started to stroke, slow and tight and unbelievably good. It ignited something that flared low in Castiel’s body, a sensation at once familiar, yet terrifyingly new in its intensity. Castiel writhed and bucked under Dean’s relentless ministrations. He clutched at Dean’s back, digging his fingers into the muscle there to ground himself. Castiel knew he was not going to last long, but he did not want it to stop, did not want Dean to pull away.

There was a moment of respite as Dean’s hand disappeared. Castiel could only feel what was happening as Dean kissed him hard, but the pressure was back almost soon as it was missed, and Castiel was gasping again. There was a new sensation, hot and hard alongside Dean’s hand. Castiel pushed Dean away for a moment to look down to where Dean’s cock rubbed alongside his own, both enclosed in Dean’s warm grip. The sight of them both, red and hard and leaking, as they thrust up into Dean’s fist pushed Castiel over the edge. Lights burst behind Castiel’s eyelids as he squeezed them closed, and he came with a shout that Dean did not quite manage to catch with his mouth. Dean pressed against him as he followed soon after, and the spasms that wracked Dean’s body vibrated through Castiel like a second climax, as he tensed and painted white lines of sticky mettle across their stomachs.

Dean collapsed over Castiel. They spent some time just lying there, the room getting darker as the candles around them died out one by one. Castiel’s arms circled around Dean’s back, while Dean dropped loose open-mouthed kisses along Castiel’s collarbone, up his neck, and then huffed out a small satisfied laugh into the sensitive skin beneath Castiel’s ear, the puff of Dean’s breath ruffling the dark strands of hair that curled there damp with sweat. Dean made his way back to Castiel’s mouth, and they tried in vain to kiss the smiles from each others’ lips, softer now that the urgency was past, lips pliant and tongues passing in gentle swipes, in time to the nocturnal melody of the Hall that sighed around them.

 Castiel was a little lost in his own bliss, so it took a few seconds longer than it should have to realise that Dean had pulled back and gone tense above him. Dean looked as if someone had slapped him across the face, he blinked rapidly a few times and shook his head, like he was sobering up, or trying to wake from a deep sleep. He was not smiling any more. As Dean moved away from Castiel, his eyes darted to each shadowed corner, as though he expected to find someone there watching them. Finally Dean’s eyes settled on something at the far end of the room.

“Fuck,” Dean said succinctly.

Castiel was still lying on the bed of the billiard table, so he tilted his head back to look in the direction of Dean’s gaze and got an upside down picture of the shutters on one of the windows at the other side of the room standing open. Lit up with fire and candlelight as they were; anyone in the darkness outside would be able to see them. What they had done was dangerously close to illegal, though the vicious tongue of the gossip might prove equally as destructive if they had been found out.  

“Fuck, Cas I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Dean said as he helped Castiel up and off the table. He looked pale.

“It’s alright, Dean,” Castiel reassured. He put a hand on Dean’s forearm trying to tell him that they were together in this. “There’s no reason for anyone to be out there, it’s late and we are far from the village.”

“It was stupid,” Dean insisted, “thoughtless. If anyone found out I’d...”

“No one’s going to find out, Dean. It will be alright.”

“ No,” Dean replied. His voice getting more forceful as he stepped away and extricated himself from Castiel’s hands. “I shouldn’t have done that, I wasn’t thinking.” He looked worried and wouldn’t meet Castiel’s eye.

“Dean, look at me,” Castiel demanded. Dean’s head snapped up but he tensed and pulled his shoulders back as Castiel tried to move closer. “It’s alright, we’ll be more careful, I understand...” Castiel tried to reach out and Dean pushed him away with a hiss as if he had been stung.

“No you don’t understand, Cas, and it’s not fucking alright,” Dean said, he was getting increasingly agitated and Castiel had no idea why. “I don’t do this, I don’t lose my head like this. I have responsibilities, other things that I need to think about, I can’t just go around doing whatever the hell I want.” Dean’s face turned hard, his body rigid and upright.

“Dean, please, I don’t understand. What’s going on?” Castiel practically begged.

At last Dean made eye contact but now it was cool and steady, as though he was wearing a mask. It turned Castiel’s blood to ice in an instant.

“I’m sorry Cas,” Dean said trying and failing to hide the tremor in his voice. “I’ve had too much to drink tonight, this was a mistake. I’m sorry.” He grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor and picked the lost buttons from the baize as Castiel gaped at him in disbelief.

“You don’t mean that.” It could not be true.

Dean swallowed and it sounded loud in the quiet of the games room. “I do,” Dean replied. He lingered at the door for a moment, and Castiel could only look at him in stunned silence, completely dumbfounded at the sudden change. “I apologise for my behaviour, Castiel, that shouldn’t have happened and it won’t happen again,” Dean said, without turning around. “Don’t tell anyone,” he added and left the room.

Castiel stared after him, out into the darkness of the Hall. One of the candles near him spluttered and died, the flame drowning in a pool of its own melted wax. The fire had all but died and it was becoming cold – or perhaps it was just Castiel who was cold, and it was radiating from him and making the air frosty. He moved slowly around the room extinguishing the candles one by one, trying not to think about Dean because when he did, it felt like going mad, and there was already one mad person at the Hall. He doubted they would tolerate a second. When all but the last flame was put out, Castiel happened to glance at the unshuttered window and for a split second, he thought he saw something in the depths of the tenebrous night, a movement.  

It made him uneasy, and he decided to close the shutters himself, leaving the terrors outside, be they real or imagined, and making the Hall secure. He glanced out to see if he could spot whatever had drawn his attention, but there was nothing there except a freezing draft from the window panes. Castiel swung one side closed easily enough, but the other was more difficult and the hinge was in need of repair, which was probably why the window had been left uncovered in the first place. 

With a little effort and weight behind it, the wooden shutter moved, but before it closed completely, Castiel glimpsed something small and pale through the glass. This time Castiel did not stop to look, he just grabbed his candle and retreated up the stairs, as quickly and quietly as possible. He did not need to look a second time to know what it was because, he had seen it before, a small hand with thin white fingertips pressing up against the glass. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Part 13**

**Thursday 15 th August 1844**

 

Sounds and images flashed and twisted along the edge of Castiel’s consciousness; the echo of voices suddenly silenced and the faint splash of bubbles that burst in muddied water, all slipped away while he blinked sleep from his eyes. The nightmares came often now, indistinct traces of childhood that made him jolt awake with a sheen of sweat on his body and the salty tracks of tears dried onto his face. Castiel pressed his arm over his face to block out the morning sun, already bright and casting shadows through the curtains from the ivy outside. It was high summer and the sultry days and nights were oppressive. The Hall was stuffy. The grass on the lawn had turned brown, and all Castiel wanted was to fall into darkness and find the peace and rest that had been denied him these last four months. Four months since the dreams had started. Four months since Dean had left Blackthorn Hall.

The memory of that night in the games room had become painful and unlike the dreams that dissolved at first light, it had not faded with time. The stone hard expression on Dean’s face when he had looked away and the words that had turned fire to ice, were scored on to Castiel’s memory. “That shouldn’t have happened... Don’t tell anyone.” That night, Castiel had his first nightmare and then woke only to step into another. His first thought was to find Dean, to make amends and correct the faulty course of their friendship. It was not what Castiel wanted, that much was abundantly clear, but he would rather recover what they had, than have nothing at all. Surely it was cowardly to not try.

He had caught Ellen on the way to the kitchen.

“Dean left before sunrise,” she had told him. The corridor was in shadow, but Castiel did not miss the faint glimmer at the corner of her eye as she spoke, nor the way her gaze lingered a little too long at the line of his collar – he had tried to cover up the bruises. “He said the business he needs to take care of was more urgent than he had originally thought and that he had to leave at once. Then he asked me to make sure his luggage was sent on to him at Liverpool, directly.” She had paused and shaken her head, “I love that boy like family, but sometimes, Castiel, sometimes, I just want to shake him till his bones rattle.” She pulled Castiel into a sudden and impulsive embrace that made both of them blush. “He’ll be back,” she said as she moved away – a rather obvious statement. This was Dean’s home after all. It had not made Castiel feel any better.

But there were small mercies to be had, even in those first dull days after Dean left, Gwen had been conspicuously silent, whatever advice the London Doctor had ordered for her relief had apparently worked, or perhaps she simply found the silence and stillness that descended over Blackthorn, when the Master was not present, more tolerable for her agitated nerves. At least Castiel no longer had her bizarre laughter, as well as the nightmares, to disturb him at night.

As weeks turned into months and damp spring turned into summer, Castiel heard little of Dean. He had written to Ellen once to say he was safely arrived in the Indies, and that the heat and the rains were intolerable, and that was all. Castiel sank back into his daily routine with renewed fervour, filling up his time so that he could not linger on thoughts of Dean or the many questions that plagued him with “what if?” Castiel’s prayers also took on a renewed urgency, as he prayed for understanding, for patience, for forgiveness, and most of all, for Dean to be safe and to return home soon.

Ben, meanwhile, was oblivious to anything other than the summer sun and the access to the outdoors that the fine weather allowed. Castiel was grateful for the distraction he provided.

“Please can we go outside today, Monsieur Milton? Je peux penser mieux au soleil!” or some variation thereof, would meet Castiel at the school room door each day.

“You think better in the sun?” Castiel asked.

“Of course,” Ben exclaimed, “it’s easier to see the words, plus facile à lire.” Castiel could hardly argue with such reasoning and gave in to Ben’s requests more and more as time went on. For all his resistance to letting go of his French heritage, Ben was completely at home on the moors. He ran with exuberant shouts through the purple heather and clambered over crags in spectacular feats of daring. He could name every bird that darted like an arrow across the deep blue sky, each plant that sprung from the ground, and where to find the mountain streams that criss-crossed the landscape, so they could sit and cool their bare feet during the hottest part of the day. Ben was growing fast, but more than that, he was growing into a creature of the moors, tanned and hardy and so unlike the pale delicate child Castiel had met nearly a year ago. Being at Blackthorn had changed Ben completely, irrevocably and for the better.   

And there it was, as clear as the cool sweet water that rushed downhill in the mountain stream beside them, the epiphany that had been loitering in the corner of Castiel’s mind, obscured too long by the hurt of Dean’s abrupt rejection. Blackthorn had changed Ben no doubt, but Blackthorn and its Master had just as surely changed Castiel. He had not realised how flat he had been, living life as only half a person. Dean had changed everything, had made Castiel feel alive, and it had burned away the barriers and protections that Castiel had built up over a lifetime. It was a shock how intensely Castiel had felt everything since that ill-fated night and he could not take it back, could not rebuild the walls that had been destroyed. More importantly, he did not want to. Castiel felt pain but it was better than the nothingness of before.

Sam sent word at the beginning of August that Dean was on his way back to England, and that Sam himself would precede him by a few weeks, in the company of his fiancée and her father. Ostensibly, they were removing to the country to escape the London summer and the choleric miasma that rose daily from the dirt filled Thames to plague the inhabitants, but it was clear to everyone who knew him, that Sam was eager to be there in time for Dean’s return.  

It seemed strange to Castiel that Sam should be at Blackthorn while Dean remained absent. Everything at the Hall was so tied to Dean that Castiel sometimes forgot that it was Sam’s home too, and would continue to be so, until he had earned enough to set up a new home for Jessica and himself. Dean had more than once offered to provide a house for them, but much to his chagrin, Sam had obstinately refused. Dean had often complained to Castiel about it saying that Sam was too head-strong, always determined to do things by himself and to make his own fortune, instead of relying on the one that Dean had inherited. Castiel had argued that self sufficiency was a good quality, but it had fallen on deaf ears. All Dean could see was a brother who kept rejecting his help.

Castiel was glad of Sam’s return to Blackthorn, aside from being another distraction as Dean’s return drew nearer. Castiel had enjoyed Sam’s company during his previous visit. He was knowledgeable, cultured, and modern in his ideas, and Castiel expected that Jessica and her father would like-wise be affable and intelligent – he doubted Sam would much tolerate the company of anyone who was not. His supposition proved correct. Jessica was as fine a young woman as he had ever met. Her dress was fine but not ostentatious, her conversation sensible yet charming, and Sam was clearly besotted. He was not the only one; Ben could not be kept away, and set out to charm her with a constant barrage of serenades and nosegays picked from the formal gardens, forcing the gardeners to hang around the best blooms to chase the little man off, before he could get his hands on them.

“You should come and stay with us, Castiel,” Jessica told him one evening a propos of nothing in particular. “If you ever want a break from Blackthorn, we would be more than happy to show you around. Isn’t that so Papa?” She turned to her father, who was sipping brandy and reading a newspaper nearby.

“Oh yes,” he said enthusiastically. “Any friend of Sam’s as they say, we’d be delighted.”

“That’s very kind, but my duties with Ben keep me here.” Castiel replied, though the proposition was an attractive one.

“Bring the boy with you, it would do him good to see the city. You should all come down, next time Dean comes to visit Sam. We’d be vastly happy to accommodate you all,” Mr Moore declared in his cheerful way. “I dare say we have museums and galleries enough to keep all of you occupied for a month. And you know the train journey only takes half a day now, isn’t that remarkable.” He smiled and went back to his paper, shaking his grey head at the wonders of the engineering age.

Jessica, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, leaned in towards Castiel and spoke low so that no one else could hear. “The invitation is for you, Castiel,” she said without preamble, “and it stands, whether or not you come alone. I just want you to know that you will always be welcome, at my father’s house, or my own when Sam and I marry.” He nodded in acknowledgement of the gesture, though he hardly knew what to make of it, so plainly and earnestly spoken.

As if at some signal, Sam suddenly appeared at Castiel’s side.

“Can I speak with you?” Sam asked. Ben was busy starting to perform a tragic scene for Jessica’s amusement; he was in the process of thrusting a wooden sword under his arm and falling to the floor with exaggerated elegance, having fought a dual in the pursuit of Jessica’s hand in marriage.

“I can watch Ben,” Jessica said as she waved them both away, then yelped rather indelicately as Ben threw himself down on her feet. Mr Moore rustled his paper as he jumped a little at the noise. Castiel nodded and followed Sam to the library.

There were a couple of long couches near the fireplace, and Sam took up a position on one of them. He indicated for Castiel to take the other. Castiel watched curiously as Sam took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for an unpleasant task.

“You might be able to guess what I want to say to you,” Sam started, once he was comfortable. He sounded uncomfortable and cleared his throat a few times.

“I really have no idea,” Castiel replied bluntly and a little defensively. There was a curl of suspicion in the pit of Castiel’s stomach. Though Dean had ordered Castiel to say nothing to anyone about what happened between them, Castiel had extracted no such promise in return, and even if he had, it was unlikely that ‘anyone’ would include Sam.

Sam was holding a glass of whiskey and he took a sip before continuing. It reminded Castiel of Dean and his stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. “This is really awkward,” Sam sighed. “Let me start at the beginning. I know you and Dean are friends, good friends, yes?”

“I like to think so.”

Sam nodded encouragingly, making his hair fall forward across his face, so that he had to shove the brown strands back behind his ears to keep them under control. “Now, when you first arrived last year I noticed that Dean talked about you a lot in his letters. I was pleased because Dean finds it hard to connect with people outside the family, with people outside the Hall.” He paused taking a draught of liquor. “Anyway, last time I was here I noticed that you were close.” Castiel felt his face colour but could not think of anything to say in response. Sam stepped in to rescue him from his own confusion. “Your business is your own, Castiel,” he said quickly, “and I’m not trying to pry. It’s just that I know my brother, and he sometimes does things without thinking...” Sam stopped for a moment and frowned as if he was trying and failing to find the right words. Then he laughed nervously. “This isn’t coming out right at all. I suppose what I mean to say is that he used to talk about you a lot, mention you in his letters. Then when he went away in April, very suddenly, it stopped, completely.”

Castiel squinted up at Sam concerned. “His letters stopped?”

“No, no. He’s still been writing, less often obviously what with the sea journey and everything. I mean he stopped talking about you, he stopped talking about the Hall, and he even stopped talking about Ben.”

“Isn’t that normal when he is away from home?”

“No, no it isn’t. His letters were strange, almost like they were written by someone else, and it made me wonder if perhaps... if something had happened.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel said perhaps a little more defensively than he intended.

Sam pulled an exasperated face. “I’m not trying to put you on the spot, Castiel, it might not sound like it, but I’m trying to help, not just my brother but you as well. I want Dean to be happy...”

“So do I.”

“I don’t doubt that, I can see that you care about him.”

“I do.”

Sam nodded again. “Something happened before he left...” he held up a hand as Castiel started to speak. “I really, really, don’t need to know the details. But I can guess that you fell out about something.”

“I wouldn’t put it exactly like that,” replied Castiel.

“Look, Dean’s my brother and I love him to death, God knows I do. But quite a lot of the time he’s an idiot,” Sam said, with a fond little smile tilting his mouth up at one side. “And that’s putting it mildly. He can be impetuous and unthinking. Don’t get me wrong, it can be an advantage in some situations and I wouldn’t want him to change, but he does stupid things and then feels guilty about it afterwards. I could tell from his letters that he was feeling guilty about something, and I can guess that it has something to do with you.” Sam sighed then took another drink before setting the glass down on a side table. “Like I said, I really don’t want to know what happened. At first I thought he might have told you something that had driven you away, so I was pleased when Ellen told me you were still here.” He leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped together as if in supplication. “All I really wanted to say was that your friendship has been good for Dean. I can tell you that I have never seen him as happy as the last time I was here.”

“Thank you, Sam, but I don’t think I can take the credit for that.”

Sam looked at him seriously. “You don’t? Then perhaps Dean isn’t the only fool at Blackthorn. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I think, the point I’m trying to make is that Dean makes mistakes, a lot of mistakes, but he never means to hurt people. They just tend to get caught in the crossfire. Please, Castiel don’t let him push you away. No matter how Dean behaves when he gets back or what you might hear about him, please don’t let him push you away.”

Of all the possible things that Castiel thought Sam might say to him, that was not one of them, and it sounded uncomfortably close to Sam giving them his blessing. It might have been funny, had it not been for the fact that Dean’s actions had already shown the limits of how far he was prepared to take their friendship. Castiel looked down, trying to think of something suitable to say.

“Sam, your brother’s friendship is important to me and when he returns, I hope we can all be as we were in the spring.” It was mostly true. Castiel did not know what Sam had expected, but he seemed satisfied enough with his response.

The whole exchange had been more than a little odd to say the least. Sam had given reassurance and even encouragement, but when Castiel reflected on the details of what had been said, he could not help but feel as if there was also a warning in there somewhere, lurking half hidden behind the words of Sam’s plea. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 14**

**Friday 30 th August 1844**

 

Sam’s earnest words were needed when Dean arrived home a few weeks later. He arrived in the afternoon, not with happiness at being home in his heart, nor with friendship or reconciliation in his mind, but with cool sarcasm falling from his lips and a large party of guests in tow. Dean had somehow found time on his journey home to form a shooting party, who arrived to disturb the quiet of the Hall with loud voices and the thoughtless bluster typical of the wealthy, of those used to getting their own way and having others bow to their demands. Castiel’s hopes of a return to better times were lost, trampled among the hooves of the hunt, the blasts of the guns, and the tittering laughter of the Misses Fairdale.

A messenger was sent to Blackthorn half an hour ahead of the coterie, and even Castiel and Ben up in the school room could not help but notice the flurry of panicked activity that ensued, as the household prepared for battle, Ellen shouting as loud and fierce as any sergeant major worth their salt. Castiel would have preferred to let the arrival of the party pass without comment, but Ben begged and begged to be allowed to see the Ladies and Gentlemen – apparently he had not yet outgrown his love of fine clothes and pretty manners. That was how Castiel came to be watching, as Dean and his guests arrived. He and Ben sat out of the way and half hidden behind the banisters on the first floor landing, Castiel hoped, more than believed, that they would not be observed there.

Sam was less than pleased with the unexpected development and attempted to drag Dean away almost before he had dismounted from his borrowed horse.

“Sammy!” Dean shouted. While the superior Maria Fairdale simpered and smirked as she pulled her horse up beside Dean’s. She wordlessly reached towards him and he lifted her down as her sisters giggled and gossiped behind their hands. “Where is that lovely Fiancée of yours Sammy? Bring her out so that the ladies can get a look at their rival for your affections.”

Even from their elevated position, Castiel could hear the slur in Dean’s voice, the lazy drunken shaping of his mouth around the words. Sam pulled Dean away from the guests and into the Hall, dragging Dean along as he tripped and stumbled across the floorboards. Dean cast a cursory glance up the stairs to the shadows, where he found Castiel out as easily as ever. He graciously spared a second to send a sneer of a grin in their direction. Castiel tried not to turn away from the ugly twist of Dean’s face, tried for Ben’s sake not to let the offense show. Instead Castiel let his face fall into its long familiar impassive lines. He nodded an acknowledgement back at Dean, a quick shallow bob of his head, expressionless and perfunctory. It was a mask Castiel had hoped not to wear again, but it seemed he had been as mistaken in that as he had been mistaken in Dean.

 “Dean is not so happy to be back with us as we are to have him I think,” Ben said sadly. He patted Castiel’s arm in conciliatory gesture. “Perhaps he is still tired from his journey and will soon be himself again?” Ben sighed loudly, a habit he had recently picked up, though Castiel had no idea where from. He attempted a reassuring smile for Ben’s benefit but it was weak and malformed and did not come close to reaching his eyes.

They stayed only a few minutes longer, the brightly bedecked Ladies and Gentlemen failing to provide the entertainment or distraction Ben had hoped for. While the noisy throng milled about in the entrance, and Ellen, Becky, and Ava tried with little success to corral them into one of the day rooms, while they tried to work out where they were going to put them all overnight, Castiel took Ben’s hand and led him back to the school room without another word. Ben did not protest.

The noise of the gathered gentry was difficult to ignore and Ben struggled with his lessons throughout the rest of the day. The sound of high spirits, yapping of dogs and the metallic click of the guns as they prepared for the shoot filled every corner of Blackthorn – much like the grouse and snipe populations of the estate were about to discover, there was no escape from drunken Gentlemen bearing arms.

Ellen arrived at the school room door in the early evening, when the sun was in the west of the sky and the dusty orange light was drawing long shadows across the floor. One look at Ellen’s sour expression, and Castiel knew he was about to hear something he was not going to like.

“The Master wishes for Mr Milton and Master Braeden to attend him downstairs immediately,” Ellen said with mock formality, pronouncing each word with exaggerated care, the rounded vowels of her accent sharpened into points. “His words not mine.” She added, reverting to her normal tones. She was flushed red and there were tendrils of hair escaping her normally meticulous hairstyle. “Maybe you can get him to act a bit more like himself, Castiel. I’m having a hard time not throttling him for bringing all these horrid people with him,” she huffed. “The girls are run ragged attending the ladies. Up and down, up and down, anyone would think they couldn’t lift a finger for themselves, damn useless creatures! I swear if that bell rings one more time, I’m going to pull it off the wall and shove it somewhere it shouldn’t be.” Ellen’s tirade was interrupted by Becky running along the corridor at full tilt. She slid to a stop barely an inch away from Ellen, circling her arms like the rotating blades of a windmill to halt her forwards momentum. She was kitted out in a white cap and apron over her usual black dress. She looked remarkably starched and pristine, and more than a little uncomfortable.

“Mrs Harvelle, you’re needed in the kitchen at once! Cook says there’s not enough beef to go around and you’ll have to send out to Crossthorpe for more.”

Ellen threw her hands up. “See? This is what happens when you throw a party without any notice, I haven’t seen Dean act this thoughtless since...” she paused then blew out an exasperated breath. “Well I don’t know, but if he keeps this up, I’ll have his guts for garters before the end of the week.”

“When does Dean want us downstairs?” Castiel asked. He glanced down at the chalk smeared on the dark cloth of his trousers. His waistcoat was frayed along the edges and one of the buttons was mismatched, from when Becky had repaired it with a random spare. Castiel had intended to buy something new, but after Dean had left in the spring, it just did not seem important anymore.

“He wants to see you right away, I’m sorry, Castiel.” She threw him a sympathetic look then turned away to chase after Becky.

***

The party was gathered in the day room. Not all together, but collected into little constellations, each revolving around their own glittering centre, someone who stood out just a little more than the rest, for whit, for influence, for beauty, or for riches. And Dean moved between them all like some divine being, charming, joking, and flattering by turns. It was quite the performance and it pleased everyone apart from the people that really mattered.

Castiel felt as if he had wandered into a different house. Ben had fallen uncharacteristically silent and clutched at the fabric of Castiel’s sleeve, his fingers flexing nervously in the white linen. Sam waved them over and Castiel breathed out a breath he had not realised he was holding. It was a relief to find a friend among the unfamiliar throng.

“Ma bien-aimée,” Ben cried as he spotted Jessica at Sam’s side. Without further preamble, Ben grasped Castiel’s hand and dragged him towards them. The sound had drawn some attention from the party and Castiel could feel the familiar weight of Dean’s gaze on the back of his neck and the telltale pull within his chest that would normally make Castiel look up in return. This time, perhaps for the first time, Castiel resisted the urge and focussed instead on exchanging greetings with Sam and Mr Moore, while Ben went to Jessica and greeted her with an extravagant kiss on each cheek.

“Whatever do we have here?” exclaimed Mrs Fairdale. She was nearby, in the company of her daughters, and she looked at them disdainfully down the long length of her nose. “What sort of creature is that? I would not let him molest you so, Miss Moore, one never knows where children have been.” She turned to Dean who was standing to the side of the group leaning on the mantelpiece. He watched everything that was passing with an air of indifferent amusement.

Castiel had never seen Dean thus. His clothes were new and fine, his face was clean shaven, and his hair, a little longer than it had been when he had left, was combed flat and to the side to match the fashion of the other Gentlemen. The traces of his journey were still evident in the rich colour of Dean’s skin and the way his hair had been lightened at its tips by the sun. His freckles stood out darker than ever across his cheeks and Castiel found himself following the path of them down to the dip of Dean’s, neck where they disappeared under cloth.

Everything about the man screamed wealth and consequence, with no small measure of arrogance thrown into the mix. He looked at Castiel steadily for a moment, his head tilted back and one eyebrow crooked like he might ask a question or issue a challenge. Castiel hated to see it. This was not the Dean he knew. This man was nothing more than a stranger wearing Dean’s face, a fake Dean that in time, Castiel could easily come to hate. Perhaps that would be for the best. At least it made what happened next easier to bear.

“Yes, Mrs Fairdale, I know,” Dean said picking up the thread of the old lady’s remarks. “It’s a trouble I could well do without, but unfortunately, the child was left to me to look after, so now he is my responsibility, at least until he’s old enough to look after himself. What do you suggest I do with him, Mrs Fairdale?” He looked straight at Castiel as he finished speaking.

Castiel looked over at Ben in alarm, worried that he might have heard what Dean was saying, but Ben was immersed in telling some kind of story to Jessica and her father. He caught Sam’s eye and was satisfied to see that the younger Winchester looked as horrified as Castiel felt. While Castiel was practiced at hiding his reaction behind a mask of indifference, Sam had no such defence, and had turned an alarming shade of red, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

“Send him off to school, Mr Winchester,” piped up Miss Maria. “It’s the best thing for boys, to be in school where they can be disciplined and taught to respect authority. The cane would soon knock those high spirits from him.”

Dean’s smirk broadened. “But we have Mr Milton here to teach him what he needs to know. What do you say on the matter, Mr Milton? You spent your best years at a school didn’t you? Do you recommend the use of the cane? Does it normally get you what you want?” Dean took a swig of his drink, then watched for a reaction over the edge of the glass. No one else would recognise the malice aimed at Castiel in Dean’s words, no one else knew Castiel like Dean did, not Sam, not Ellen, and certainly no one else in that room.

For all Sam’s warnings, for whatever regret Dean felt, or blame he attributed to Castiel for what had happened between them, Castiel would never have expected Dean to act in such a low manner. Anger and violence bubbled up in Castiel’s veins and he was filled with an urge to go over and rip the glass from Dean’s hand and dash it to pieces on the ground.

Instead, Castiel remained outwardly placid. “No,” he replied steadily, “the cane does nothing but brutalise the small and the weak. Sympathy and encouragement usually work better than punishment in my experience.”

“But, my dear Mr Milton,” cried Mrs Fairdale. “Is it not true that some children are just born bad? And is it not our duty to correct these defects before the bad child becomes a bad adult?”

“Yes, Ca... Mr Milton,” Dean said catching himself just in time. “What have you to say to that?”

Castiel’s throat tightened. “Children are born nothing but innocent, Mrs Fairdale. If they turn bad then I hazard a guess that the fault would lay with the adults around them.” He knew he should stop but bold anger drew him on. “It is perhaps fortunate that your own children turned out so well, or did they receive the liberal application of the cane as well.” The Misses Fairdale gasped in the background, and there were murmurs about ‘manners’ and ‘insolence’ from among the other guests, while Sam stifled a laugh behind his hand, then smiled at Castiel in approval.

“My goodness,” said the old lady turning back to Dean who was biting hard at his bottom lip and trying to hold back a laugh. “I’m not sure I’d be comfortable having such a... a... free thinker on my household staff, Mr Winchester. Mark my words, you should send the boy to school. Get him out of the way for when your own children arrive. Tutors and governesses are always more trouble than they are worth. We didn’t allow any of our governesses to roam the halls or spend time with the family outside the school room when the girls were small.” She sneered at Castiel, then turned around and pointedly ignored him for the rest of the night. It was a small consolation.

Castiel did not care to be among these people and was grateful that Sam and Jessica kept Ben close to them, allowing Castiel to stay beside them as well. He turned his back on Dean and tried to block out the sound of his voice as Dean cracked jokes, more than a few of which were at Castiel’s expense, and made the ladies laugh in light silvery tones, each trying to impress the Master of Blackthorn with their modest displays of appreciation at his wit.

Only once did Castiel’s thoughts stray perilously close to danger as he sat through the rest of the evening, glancing at the clock and willing the brass hands to move faster so that he could leave. The ladies fluttered around Dean like brightly decorated moths round a flame. They hung on his every word and laughed rapturously at each joke. Castiel could see through the charade, hear the abhorrence layered in Dean’s voice, but the ladies remained happily oblivious to it. It was repugnant how desperate they were for Dean’s attention and good opinion when he showed them none in return. In a moment of weakness, Castiel wondered how horrified the ladies would be if they found out exactly how close their dashing host and his impertinent tutor had been, only a few months ago, and in that moment, Castiel wished that they knew, that he could triumph over them and bring Dean down in the process. The thought was cruel, ugly, and Castiel was shocked at himself as soon as he thought it. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Part 15**

**Sunday 8 th September 1844**

 

They were not required to attend the evening gatherings again, and as the party was out shooting during the day Castiel managed to avoid them most of the time. It would not be long until all the birds on the estate had been killed, and then thankfully, the party would relocate to another estate so that blood could be spilled all over again until their lust for it was sated or all the birds were gone. With the possible exception of Dean, and who knew what he was thinking these days, the whole household was eager for that day to arrive and for the house guests to be gone.

The revellers were more raucous than ever the night before they went. Blessed with an unparalleled ability to sleep, Ben, at least, was undisturbed by the music from the hired musicians and the inebriated laughter that bounced around the interior walls and reached into every part of the Hall, even disturbing the spiders as they scampered into nook and crevice. Castiel kept to his room and out of the way, but as the night wore on, it became clear that he was not going to be able to sleep through the festivities.

He slipped out of his room and headed for the darkness of the back stairs that would take him to the library. He doubted he would run into any of the guests there.  He noticed with a sort of absent minded distraction that Gwen was making a noise again for the first time in months. This time, however, he had sympathy with her, and wickedly hoped she might go traipsing about the corridors that night and give the Misses Fairdale a scare.

The library was not large and it was set out rather oddly, wrapped around the corner of the building to form a distinctive L shape. Castiel liked the library, it was not often frequented by anyone other than the maids who passed through to dust the shelves and set the fire. Sam used it when he was home and that appeared to be the main reason Dean kept it stocked with new texts alongside the old. It was clear that at some time in the past one of the Winchester ancestors had taken an interest in the occult, because there were some unusual volumes scattered among the novels and historic texts.

Its relative abandonment meant that the candles were not lit as a matter of course, though the fire was usually set to chase away the drafts and the damp that threatened the old tomes. Castiel was in the habit of lighting just the candles necessary for his needs, so it was a surprise when he arrived to find the place merrily blazing away, even the central chandelier, which he had never seen in use before, sparkled grandly from the centre of the room. The sight made him smile, the extra light made the golden lettering on the spines of the books shine, as though they contained magic – which in Castiel’s opinion they did.  

The extravagant use of candles, enough to keep the village chandler in bread for the rest of the year, was no doubt in honour of the guests. A show to the neighbours that Blackthorn was not the dreary dismal place it was reputed to be. In Castiel’s opinion, it was in fact a lot more dreary with the party there than it ever had been before. It was unlikely, he thought, that any of the party would be found seeking out such lofty pursuits as reading, for all that they were supposed to be his betters. He quickly chastised himself for being so ungenerous. His thought had taken on a bitter edge lately and he did not like it. He was being uncharitable, he did not know these people. Perhaps there was something going on, some motivation that he didn’t understand – it would not be the first time he had been mistaken, it wouldn’t even be the first time in the last few months.

The musty smell of the books was calming, and taking advantage of the excess of light, he spent some time browsing the bookcases before finding a comfortable corner to spend some time trying to decide between Darwin’s ‘Voyage of the Beagle’ or the latest Dickens offering. Castiel stayed there until a noise made him realise that he was no longer alone. Hidden as he was behind the bend of the room, he had no idea who had come in. Then there was some rather high pitched giggling, followed to Castiel’s utter dismay, by the unmistakeable sound of Dean’s voice.

“...and here are some books,” Dean said. He was drunk as per usual, his words thick and languid. Castiel hoped they would leave without noticing him, so he stayed quiet and tucked out of the way. “All we have left is the kitchen, if you really want to see it. But I must warn you that if Cook sees you she might well put you to work, Miss Fairdale.”

“Mr Winchester,” Maria chastised. “You promised me if I came here, that I could see the rest of the house. You are supposed to show me around and point out all the best features, and all the bits that need improvement. Then you are supposed to tell me how much the Hall needs a lady's touch to make it a home again.” She sounded smug and her talk was presumptuous. If she thought Dean intended to make a marriage proposal, she was a fool. On top of that, Castiel felt offended on Dean’s behalf at the implied insult to his mother’s arrangements, arrangements they had maintained in tribute to her, and the comment was hardly likely to endear Maria to anyone who knew it.

When Dean didn’t respond, Maria proceeded to fill up the silence with a series of inane observations about the size of the room and the appropriateness of where the windows were situated. But Castiel had had enough and tried to ignore them as he flicked though the pages of one of the books. By the time he looked up again, the library had gone quiet, save for the clicking of the coals in the fireplace. With relief, Castiel stood up, gathered together the books he had decided to borrow, and stepped out from behind a bookcase.

Castiel was not alone, and as it turned out, he was the biggest fool in the room. A gasp caught and lodged in his throat. His brain struggled to interpret what he was seeing, and his thoughts shattered into a hundred pieces that scattered across the floor. He stepped back into the shadows and then sank into darkness as he shut his eyes against the image. It was too late. The picture was already there, a tableau etched across the inside of his eyelids. It was Maria and Dean. The outline of their bodies thrown into sharp relief by the fire and candle light, Maria’s head tilted back in an open and accepting action. Dean had his hands on her, the fingers of one hand dancing over the ties at her back, while the other brushed over the curve of her breast where her gown was cut low and revealing.  He covered her pink rosebud mouth with his own. Their bodies were pressed close but relaxed, lacking urgency, in a way that screamed familiarity – this was not a first kiss. Maria was right to be expecting a proposal.

Jealousy hit Castiel like a punch in the stomach. Its claws ripped at him and he felt like he was dying as the seconds passed by. He counted them off with the hollow tick-tocking of the clock on the mantle-piece. He had been nursing a ridiculous hope, a secret hope he had pushed down into the deep places of himself, where neither he nor anyone else could see it, the hope that this false Dean was a passing thing and the one he knew would eventually return. Moreover, the sickening feeling in Castiel’s stomach spoke the truth about how he wanted Dean, and he did want Dean, he wanted all of him, every part that he was busy carelessly handing to someone else. There was no more hiding behind a friendship that was long gone, long past, maybe even trodden into the dirt of the road on a stormy night a year ago, when he had faced a green-eyed stranger as lightning cracked and flashed in the distance. Maybe it was at the press of hands and a simple “welcome to Blackthorn, Cas,” maybe it was in the smiles, or the conversations, or the press of lips after the fire. Castiel did not know when it had happened, but he knew right then, that he was in love with Dean and friendship would never suffice.   

As soon as he realised these things, he also realised that they were lost. Dean had left in the spring, not just on business, but to rid himself of Castiel – he had probably expected Castiel would figure it out and leave the Hall before he returned. It was the obvious course of action, though he had been too slow or too blind to see it until now. Dean would marry Maria, they would have a family, and Dean would be content. There was no way that Castiel was going to stay to see it happen. There was no longer a decision to make; Castiel had to leave Blackthorn Hall.  

“We should get back to the others,” Dean said breaking though the spiral of Castiel’s thoughts as he followed them down. Dean’s voice sounded oddly dull and flat, but Castiel was not sure if it was real or a distortion of his own perception.

“Yes, of course, Mr Winchester,” replied Miss Fairdale, who paused before adding “I must get back to my sisters.” She giggled, in what Castiel supposed might be considered a becoming and girlish manner, though it grated on his nerves. Her obvious glee in her triumph over her siblings was repulsive and Castiel felt dirty just being in the same room with her.

*******

As soon as they left, Castiel let out the breath he had been holding. It did nothing to ease the churn of his stomach, where jealousy, anger, and despair battled for dominance.  He clutched the books in front of his heart like a makeshift shield, but they could offer no protection. They made a heavy sound on the floorboards as he let them fall to the ground. Castiel scrubbed a hand across his face. He felt weary, his body suddenly full of mysterious aches and pains. He let his head rest against the frame of a bookcase, and looked up at the decorative plaster work on the ceiling as he tried to collect together his fractured thoughts. The mouldings must have been gilded once upon a time, but they were old now, worn with age and neglect and the spectacle was hidden under a drab disguise of plain white paint, the sort that graced a thousand ceilings in a thousand other rooms across the country.

A silvery glint in the firelight caught at the corner of Castiel’s eye as he made his way to the door. A single silk glove, abandoned on the floor by the hearth. The cloth was fine and a delicate dove grey colour. Castiel considered tossing it into the flames that crackled nearby – apparently he was not above thoughts of petty revenge. Instead he left it where it was and walked away.

A floorboard creaked in the hall outside, it was all the warning he got before the door swung open, fast enough that Castiel was forced to step back to avoid being hit by it. Dean was framed in the doorway.  He stood as if stupefied by shock at the sight of Castiel, his eyes wide and his mouth forming a little “o” as he teetered on the threshold as though he did not know whether to enter the room or turn and flee. Castiel could practically see the cogs turning in Dean’s head. It did not take a genius to work out what had happened, and Dean was certainly no genius, but judging by the ashen colour of his face and the breathy “fuck” that escaped his lips, he had managed to work it out.

Dean was exposed in his discomfort, unable to paste on the smirking facade fast enough, he had been discovered, and for the first time in the week since Dean had returned to Blackthorn Hall, Castiel was the one holding the cards.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” Castiel said sarcastically, spitting Dean’s own words back at him in a horrible parody of the night in the games room. Everything Castiel had felt in the last few days, or maybe the last few months, came rushing to the surface to mix and boil in a barely concealed rage. His knuckles whitened in the stretch of skin over bone as he balled his hands into fists at his sides.

“No, I don’t suppose you will,” Dean replied, responding to Castiel’s hostility in kind. Dean pushed the heavy door closed behind him then went and retrieved the tiny glove from the floor. It looked ridiculously small and flimsy in his hand and he shoved it carelessly into his pocket.  “Who would you have to tell anyway, Castiel?” Dean asked, his face gone hard and haughty. “You could tell your God I suppose, maybe he gets off on spying on people as well?”

“I wasn’t spying.” Castiel moved closer and his heartbeat ratcheted upwards with each step. “And as you were so good as to point out, Mr Winchester, I don’t have anyone to tell secrets to. So if it’s all the same with you, I’d rather just forget about the whole thing.”

Dean snorted and Castiel felt the air move on his skin. “Why don’t you do that then? Go on... go back to your room and your lessons and your prayers and forget all about it.” Dean stepped in, drawing himself up, trying to threaten and intimidate, just like he had all those months ago when he had been nothing more to Castiel than a stranger dressed in black. “In fact,” Dean continued. “Why don’t you just forget everything and fuck off back where you came from.”

Castiel bristled with anger. It felt like a static charge, prickling like needles as it raced over his skin, making every hair stand on end. “You’re a coward, Dean,” Castiel said quietly letting the words saturate the space between them. Dean flinched as though he had been struck. Castiel tried to turn and leave, but Dean’s hand landed on his shoulder, gripping hard as he pushed Castiel backwards. The door rattled on its hinges as Castiel’s back slammed into it, and he huffed as his breath was pushed from his lungs in the collision. Dean followed him, crowding in on him in a twisted mimicry of the last time they had been alone together. The memory of it seared vivid and hot but there was something else breaking open inside Castiel, a primordial anger that swelled and crested like a tidal wave about to break.

Dean was Master at Blackthorn, however desperately he tried to pretend he was not. Dean had wealth, status, and power on his side. He was Castiel’s employer and his superior in every way that mattered outside in the wider world, to people like the ones drinking and cavorting beyond the library door. Dean could order Castiel from the Hall or hound him from the county, but here between the rows of dusty books, Castiel would not be controlled. He was no helpless child to be bullied, and he was certainly not weak.

Half in attack, half in defence, and with less than half a thought in his head, Castiel responded to Dean’s physicality. He shoved forward, pushing away from the door, and balled the front of Dean’s shirt and fine waistcoat in his hands. He hauled Dean around and slammed him hard into the metal studs of the closed door. Dean gasped in surprise and then pain, as the door handle connected with his side, but the choked out sound turned up at the end, transforming into cruel laughter. It was the last straw and Castiel hit out, blinded by the need to rip the smirk from Dean’s face. He leaned back then swung his fist forward and punched Dean hard across the mouth, once, twice, and then again for a third time.

There was a resounding crack as Dean’s head made contact with the door. There was blood as the impact forced Dean’s bottom lip against his teeth and the skin split open. The skin on Castiel’s knuckles was broken and he sucked in laboured breaths as he shook from the rush of adrenaline. They would both be wearing bruises by morning. There was silence and it stretched out, drawing tight and tense. Dean dabbed at his lip, looked down in confusion at the red stains as he rubbed the blood between his fingers.

“Are you crazy?” Dean asked quietly, all the fight gone out of him.

For a moment Castiel thought maybe he had gone mad. He could not look away from the cut on Dean’s lip; he was utterly mesmerized by the viscous liquid that trickled down Dean’s chin and dripped onto his shirt. It tasted rusty. Castiel’s lips caught and stuck on the tacky fluid as he chased the taste of it with his tongue, back to the source, and into a heat that made him moan. Castiel was only vaguely aware that they were kissing, as Dean’s fingers came up to grip the sides of his face, hard and punishing, trying to hold him still as he licked his way into Castiel’s mouth. The first time Castiel had been eager but pliant and had followed where Dean led, afraid that his inexperience would betray him. Not this time. With anger buzzing raw and unchecked under his skin he bit at Dean’s mouth and sank his teeth into the tear in his lip, drawing more blood along with a pained cry. Castiel did not care; he was set alight and the flames burned his senses until he was all but mindless with need. He grabbed at those stolen moments and clung on to them, because he knew they would be the last pieces of Dean he would ever get. 

“Please, Cas,” Dean whispered as Castiel pulled back hot and panting. Dean’s face was flushed, his eyes closed, and Castiel was distracted by the flash of pink tongue that was visible as he spoke. Dean opened his eyes slowly, as if it was a labour to do so. They were dark and his pupils were blown wide inside a corona of green. “Please, Castiel.” And Castiel understood the words for what they were, Dean was not asking him to stop, to move away and let him go; he was begging him not to.

Need shone bright in Dean’s eyes, every inch of his body screamed want as he strained to press harder against Castiel, and desperation was written in the clench and flex of fingers that twisted in Castiel’s dark hair. In that moment Dean was utterly at his mercy. But Dean was still Dean and he would leave the room and run again, run right into the arms of Maria Fairdale and the lie of the life Dean thought he should be living. Perhaps that was what Dean wanted, a pretty wife and a family for everyone to see and admire, and Castiel out of sight and waiting in the dark.

Everything inside Castiel rebelled at the thought. Despite the current evidence to the contrary, he had not in fact lost his mind, and he had certainly not lost his faith. He would not wait around to receive the left-over scraps from Dean’s life with Maria. However cavalierly Dean might regard his wedding vows, they were sacrosanct to Castiel, and once sworn in the sight of God they were sacred, unbreakable. No, this was where Castiel drew the line. If Dean wanted to hold on to the fragments of their friendship until they cut him into pieces, so be it. Castiel just wanted it over. He just wanted to regain some peace.

 In a clumsy movement, Castiel pushed Dean’s hands off and shoved him away from the door. He ignored Dean’s half sobbed protest as he escaped into the corridor. Sam was coming towards him, his usual affable smile in place, but Castiel pushed past without so much as an acknowledgment.  He heard the “Oh” as Sam reached the library door.

“Well, did that help?” Sam asked.

“No.” Dean grumbled in reply. He sounded like a petulant child. Anything else they might have said was lost in the distance as Castiel climbed the back stairs.

Inside his room, Castiel felt claustrophobic, like the walls of the Hall were pressing in around him. He wanted to escape, to fly away. He wanted to be outside so that he could breathe and feel the wind on his skin and the sun on his face, let those things wash away the taint he felt from his own failings. He thought of the railway and imagined the world passing swift around him, speeding by – the sense of freedom it had given him, of joy, and hope that anything might be possible. He wanted to feel that again.

Castiel was a different person to the one that had arrived at Blackthorn a year ago. Perhaps that was what God had wanted him to learn all along. That a life well lived meant experiencing every part there was to offer, pain as well as joy. In the stillness and silence of before, he had not really been alive at all. If that was the lesson, it had been well learnt and Castiel could move on from Blackthorn as a real person, complete and whole with no missing parts. As if in response to the thought, there was a twinge in Castiel’s chest, an ache he had learned to live with while Dean was gone.

He tried to picture it; some other house; some other family; some other child to care for. Then he saw himself opening letters sealed with the red wax stamp of Blackthorn, reading words in Ellen’s proficient hand and Ben’s attempts at elegant script. What news would such letters bring? News of Dean’s marriage, his children, news of the Hall filled with the sounds of family, the music of happiness that would fill up the corners of Blackthorn and frighten away the big black spiders that hid there. He pushed the thoughts away.

The plan was sound. There was no reason for delay. Tomorrow Castiel would set out for Crossthorpe to post a new advertisement – perhaps in both The Times and the Manchester Guardian this time. Swap the quiet isolated country pile for an up-and-coming industrial town filled with people and the steam driven engines of innovation and trade, swap Blackthorn for the soot blackened mills of Cottonopolis.

Castiel gazed at his reflection in the mirror for a long moment. He did not know what he expected to see there; maybe that this new plan, and the prospect of a future that did not include Dean might have changed something. He looked the same, still haunted, still sad, and still marked with Dean’s blood where it was smeared across his mouth. He could plan all he wanted, but the lie was there for anyone to see – Castiel would not escape Dean so easily. He could remove himself from Blackthorn and never look upon its rough stone face or crooked ramparts ever again, but the scarlet threads that had stitched Dean into his heart would remain with him whereever he went. Tattered and frayed though they might be, they were certainly not gone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Part 16**

**Monday 9 th September 1844  **

 

Morning broke fine and bright. The luminous globe of the sun shone down from a perfect expanse of azure sky. Clouds of tiny flies pirouetted in lazy spirals, kicked up from the heather as Castiel strode by, and light sparkled in diamond-like flashes as it caught on the membrane of their wings. The unexpected beauty of the display did little to delight Castiel as he marched on towards Crossthorpe, the peewit call of the lapwing following after him like a plaintive cry to turn and see. He paid it no heed.

Castiel no longer took the road to the village. Instead he used a short cut, a path that was little more than a depression among tussocks and grasses. It was a route pressed out through use over countless years, a short cut for local people who knew when to use it and when to stick close to the way-markers of higher ground. It had been nearly a year since Castiel had arrived at Blackthorn Hall, and now he traced an obscure path that no outsider should know, in order to leave it all behind.

Folded and secure inside his coat pocket sat the papers that would take Castiel away from the brutal landscapes and strange people. He caught himself at the thought. It was not true. He looked to the peaks in the distance; grey cliff faces standing like monuments; the blush of the purple heather; ground peppered with bilberry and cotton grass, still damp from the late summer rains. Further off, the hillside was scored with darker patches, moorland burned to black, so the red grouse would have plenty of new shoots to feed on. The moorland was not rough or bare – it was bursting with life and beautiful in its way. The land was alive and glorious in its diversity, from the tiny merlins that hunted on the wing overhead to the adders that basked on sun heated rocks below, there were secrets to be surrendered in every inch, rewards on offer to those who took the time to look.

There was a sigh, a sad sound of disappointment and regret. It took a few seconds for Castiel to realise it was his own. His resolve wavered in the battle he had waged since the break of dawn. No. He would not falter now, Castiel was set on a course of action and he would follow it through to completion. That did not mean he would not regret what he left behind.

The post office in Crossthorpe always opened on time. The shop was well appointed and the postmaster efficient, doing his job without resorting to superfluous chatter. In minutes, Castiel had purchased stamps, affixed them to his letters, and handed them over to go out in the next post. Some part of Castiel expected to feel different once the task was complete, better perhaps, or even a little excited, as if he had the last time he had performed this job, but he did not. Instead, his heart sat like a leaden weight in his chest pulling him down so that each step forward was heavy and laboured.

Returning to the Hall immediately was not a pleasant proposition. Castiel could not bear the thought of seeing Dean again so soon. Whether that was because of his still simmering anger or his fear of seeing the marks that anger had left on Dean’s face, was debatable. He had slipped away from the Hall early, without telling anyone his intensions, his destination, or indeed, if or when he would return. It would be an inconvenience. Someone would have to look after Ben in his absence, but Castiel was desperate to set in motion his mode of escape. To spend any more time at the Hall and in Dean’s company was akin to torture and Castiel would only survive by knowing there was an end in sight – this was, of course, assuming that Dean would not throw him out on his ear as soon as he got back to Blackthorn. It was a very real possibility; inflicting violence on your employer was a pretty surefire way to lose your place.

Vendors were setting out stalls all across the village square and hawkers called to passersby, rattling baskets of nuts and showing off their wares, to catch their attention. Castiel had never seen market day at Crossthorpe and it was fascinating. The space filled up quickly. The clatter of well shod horses and the creak of carts joined the general hubbub as new arrivals poured in from further afield. Castiel wandered past stalls piled high with foodstuffs and trinkets, and lingered to watch the transactions. One particularly canny old lady haggled expertly over a length of linen. It was white and printed with a small repeated flower motif.

“It’s for my granddaughter,” she said in a wobbly, aged voice. “She’s to be married next month and I’d like to make her a new dress. Look,” she opened her wrinkled hand to show the moustached seller a few silver coins lying against her old wizened flesh. “It’s all I have saved, all I have to give her before she goes away forever.” Her eyes filled with tears and drops of salty water fattened and slipped out over the edge. They crawled down her face in a slow zigzag as they made their way between folds of old skin. How could the vendor refuse such a display? He could not, and the old lady skipped away, prize in hand a moment later.

By the time the church bells chimed two o’clock, most of the stalls were being taken down and only those with too much stock remained, in the hope of making a few extra sales. Castiel had forgone breakfast that morning and the empty rumble of his stomach sent him to the Crown Inn in search of victuals. The Inn was an old building, tucked tight into the corner of the square. It predated much of the village and had an old fashioned rustic look with its dark wood frame and white washed walls. Time had warped the oak beams and now it had a lopsided and rather squashed look, sandwiched between more modern and clean cut brick and stone facades. But it was a respectable place, its rooms and stables still used by travellers on a regular basis, as per its original purpose.

Fine dining was the least of Castiel’s worries and he ate a decent if simple meal. He accepted a cup of beer along with the food and found it helped to ease some of the worst of his troubles.  He gave a coin for another without much hesitation. Alcohol had been an alien thing to Castiel before arriving on the doorstep of Blackthorn – he had certainly changed in that regard.

 “Why so sad?”

Castiel jumped a little at the words. A dark haired young woman brushed imaginary dirt from the bench beside him before sitting down without waiting for an invitation. She was dressed in a white top and black skirt, a bright red sash around her waist was pulled in tight in a way designed to emphasise the curves of her body. She was pretty, with a small pouty mouth and long shiny brown hair that tumbled in waves around her face and down her back. She looked familiar, but Castiel could not place where he had seen her before. He squinted at her through the smoke-filled haze of the Inn while he tried to puzzle it out.

“It seems a shame for such a fine face not to wear a smile,” she drawled into his ear as she leaned in close to his side. “Perhaps I could help you with that?” She returned his gaze steadily, tilted her head to the side and twisted a lock of hair around one delicate finger. Castiel’s frown deepened and he turned away, keen for her to be gone as soon as possible.

“I’m not interested in company,” Castiel said plainly. He could feel her eyes on him, appraising him, weighing his potential value and deciding how to play it.

“No perhaps not,” she said with a smile and a wink that he did not understand, “but lucky for you I have many exciting talents.” She turned her head and raised her voice to a louder pitch so that the other patrons could hear her. “How about a song then, sweetheart? I know just the thing for someone pining for their love.” The suggestion was met with a cheery rumble of agreement from a number of people around the room. Castiel was not so enthusiastic.

“I’m not pining for anyone,” he replied in a sour voice. Was that a lie? He hardly knew anymore.

She looked down at him sympathetically. “I know the look, sweetheart and you... you have it with bells on.” She hummed as her fingers trailed down the pale column of her throat. “To be in love and to be in pain from it, sweetheart, that’s the most exquisite torture of all.”

Castiel shook his head. He suddenly felt intensely uncomfortable. “Sing if you want, but I won’t pay you for it if that is what you’re expecting,” he said and turned away from her.

She laughed in reply. “It’s a good job I’m not interested in your money then isn’t it,” she said with another wink, just as disconcerting as the first, and Castiel wondered if he had read the situation wrong after all. “Just make sure you smile for me handsome. I want to see some happiness on that lovely face of yours.” She swept off towards the piano in the corner, her skirts swishing as she went over to whisper into the ear of a man sitting nearby. At length they came to some kind of agreement. He moved over to the instrument and struck the first round notes of a tune. The girl began to sing.

Her voice was smooth, like honey, and she swayed her hips in time to the music as she moved around the smoky room, singing to each person as though they were the only one present. She had talent, and the other patrons seemed to find pleasure in it, and not just the men deep in their cups who leered and grabbed for her when she came close. The song seemed to be about someone called “Poor Lily” who fell in love with a soldier. When he went off to war she watched for him from her window every morning and every night, but when at last her love returned, it was with a wife already on his arm. Before long many of the others were singing along, but Castiel had never heard it before. He tried to give the girl a small polite smile as the tune wound to a close – “Poor Lily” it seemed was a fragile creature and had wandered out into the night never to be seen again – but he was not sure he managed it.

Moreover, there was something disconcerting about the young woman. As he watched her through the cloudy air, he finally recalled where he had seen her before. It was in the spring, the day before Dean had left Blackthorn, when Castiel had come into the village to go to church and had found Dean waiting for him, back before everything had become so horribly complicated. This was the same girl that had danced in the square that day. The girl that had flashed bright coloured skirts and danced with bells on her ankles, while her lover played the fiddle and watched her movements with barely disguised joy.

It was strange that she had remained, or returned. Castiel did not want to presume anything, given her odd attempt at kindness towards him, but her presence alone at the Inn seemed to indicate she had taken up a new line of work. There was something troubling about it. How had that happy young girl that twirled and danced in innocent joy, become this lonely creature that purred and moved with a heavy and suggestive sensuality.

He looked at her and tried to reconcile the opposing images, and for the briefest moment, he thought he saw her in a different life, one hidden beneath the surface but not yet gone. He saw her laugh as she picked blackberries from a hedgerow on a late summer day and threw them at her brothers and sisters. He saw the soft blush on her cheek as she sang softly to a tall young man as he put his arms around her. He saw her with a child balanced on her hip, as she turned in circles dancing around a camp fire. Then there was nothing but fire and the vision was gone, leaving Castiel breathless and confused. It reminded Castiel of his dreams, the ones he recorded in paint and charcoal, brilliant images of people and places Castiel had never seen, flashes of colour that defied description, and songs that rang clear without any sound. These were things Castiel conjured in his sleeping mind. It had never happened when he was full awake before, and it was disorienting. Maybe he was going mad?

The church was cool and calm as always. It was exactly what Castiel needed, an antidote to the perturbing presence of the young woman at the Inn. The air was clear and cold inside the thick stone walls, and he felt like he could breathe again, away from the noxious tobacco and stale-ale scent of the taproom. Today he did not approach the altar in his usual habit, instead he slid into one of the pews at the back, close to the door. He needed time alone to seek guidance and comfort – true solace for the soul, not the transitory comfort found at the bottom of a pint of beer.

His eyes slipped closed and he prayed silently, his mouth shaping words without any sound. He had no idea how much time had elapsed, when he felt the warm press of a body alongside his own. He opened his eyes already knowing who he would see. She had carried the smell of the Inn with her as well as a spicy cinnamon scent that seemed to be all her own. 

“You followed me,” Castiel said. It was not a question, but she shrugged in response then leaned over to rest a thin fingered hand high up on his thigh. He pushed it off with a sense of revulsion as their skin made contact. “What do you want?”

She looked at him with wide-eyed innocence. “I just want to make you happy, sweetheart. I already told you that. I wasn’t lying.” She smiled sweetly.

“I don’t understand what you mean? I told you, I’m not interested in your company.”

“Hmmm,” she purred again. Her eyes narrowed and her winsome smile suddenly took on an altogether more knowing and dangerous aspect. “Oh I know that, sweetheart, believe me I know.  But I can give you something that you do want, something a little bigger and stronger than this hmm?” She ran her hand across her bodice as she talked. “What would you say to something a little more man shaped, a little more Winchester shaped perhaps.” She arched one eyebrow up and looked smug as she waited for a response.

Castiel felt his face heat up. “What are you talking about?” he asked sharply.

She sighed and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner, as though he was being terribly dense. “I know you haven’t been doing much thinking with your upstairs brain recently, but do try and keep up, sweetheart. Don’t you want to be happy? Don’t you think you deserve to be happy, Castiel?”

“How do you know my name? Who are you?” Castiel demanded. He grabbed her wrist, then dropped it again quickly as he was overcome again by a sickening sense of revulsion. She looked a little less sure of herself as she looked down at where he had touched her. She looked up quickly and for a moment, in the shadows of the church’s interior, her eyes looked as black as her sooty lashes.

“Meg,” she said. “You can call me Meg. Though perhaps I should be asking who you are, it’s not every day I meet someone who can get me going like that.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“I could be a friend to you, Castiel, a good friend. I can give you what you want, I can give you Dean,” she said. Her voice was soft and cajoling but her face was a picture of triumph. He turned away from her, determined not to listen to another word, but she did not stop. “I know about his lady and I can make her disappear... ” She snapped her fingers. The sharp noise bounced around, trapped inside the walls of the church. “Just like that. Imagine it, Castiel,” she said as she sidled nearer, closing up the gap he had made between them. “Imagine what you could be to each other,” she licked her lips lasciviously, “imagine what you could do to each other? Hmmm?”

“You know nothing,” he spat back at her. “Dean and I are barely even friends. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you can take your insinuations elsewhere. You can have nothing to say that will be of interest to me.” He stood up to leave, but she caught him by the hand as he tried to push past and yanked him back down. She was strong, very strong and he winced as she dug her fingers into the soft skin of his wrist, mimicking the hold he had used on her, but with much more vicious force.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she sneered. “That’s adorable, but don’t bother trying to deny it. If you didn’t want people to find out, then you and your beloved Master should probably stop fucking in front of the windows, all lit up for the whole wide world outside to see.” Her voice was low and dangerous and each word hit Castiel like a blow. He gaped at her in horror and she laughed. It was a cruel noise that made him shudder. “You should be more careful in your amorous exploits, sweetheart; you never know who might be prowling about out there at night; who might be watching.”

Castiel closed his eyes against the flashes of now painful memory her words stirred up. His pulse was starting to speed up as he felt panic rise and it choked his words of protest.

“No need to look so shocked, Castiel,” she continued. “I don’t care what you do or who you do it with. Such petty things make no difference to me. Though I have to say, it was quite the show,” she chuckled before going serious again. “I really do just want to give you something that will make you smile. Imagine it, Castiel, you could have Dean all to yourself, in whatever way you want him. I can put him in your bed, every night, whispering sweet nothings into your ear and looking into those big blue eyes of yours – I can make it happen. And if you won’t do it for your own happiness, how about you do it for Dean? I’ve seen how he looks at you Castiel, he wants it just as badly as you do. He’s just too pig-headed to admit it. If you let me help you, I could set him free from all that guilt and endless Winchester self-flagellation,” she rolled her eyes again.

“How?” Castiel asked, in an attempt to change the direction of the conversation. “How could you do any of this, you’re talking nonsense.”

She considered him, then made a clicking noise with her tongue. “No, no, no,” she said and tapped him on the end of the nose as if he were a child. “Don’t be nosey sweetheart, a magician never reveals their secrets, but you know that I’m telling the truth.” She was right. There was something about her, the surety in her voice, the unshakable confidence that oozed from her. Castiel had no doubt she was telling the truth.

“And I take it there would be some sort of payment involved in this arrangement?” He did not have the slightest intention of taking her up on the offer, but if she intended blackmail he needed to know.

“Well of course sweetheart, but not upfront. Here’s how it goes,” she said gently, as she smoothed out her skirts and sat up straight. “I get rid of the woman so that you can have Dean all to yourself, body and soul, and the two of you live happily ever after...” she clapped her hands together gleefully, “well, maybe not _ever_ after, but definitely happily. And then in a few years time I’ll call on you for payment.”

“You’re mad,” Castiel said. “Whatever you think you know about us, you’re wrong.”

“Oh really?” she scoffed. “Sorry, sweetheart but I saw it all with my own eyes... not these particular eyes, but still. So don’t try and tell me I don’t know what I saw, because I know love when I see it.”

“Get out.” Castiel said slowly and carefully.

“Shush,” she said waving a little hand at him. “I’ll go. But think on it, Castiel. I’ll find you again soon, so make up your mind and be quick about it because that big juicy bit of gossip I have rattling around in my head, it’s just bursting to get out and run free.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips, looking down at him. “I wonder what the people around here would think of your fine Mr Winchester if they knew the sort of things he got up to with his quiet little tutor. Do you think they’d be happy for him, Castiel? Happy for you? Or do you think he’d be vilified and labelled a deviant, maybe even arrested?  Do you think the villagers are so in awe of the Winchesters that they wouldn’t march their rough music right up to the doorstep of Blackthorn Hall? They would probably petition to have Ben taken away from him too, can’t have innocent minds exposed to that kind of sickness and sin after all.” She shrugged and harrumphed. “It’s funny you know, how wrong people can be about what sin really is. If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that no one ends up in Hell because of who they love, but lots are there because of who they hate.” She slipped out of the pew, the swish of her skirts the only noise to disturb the stillness. “Well, that’s my offer, sweetheart; I’ll leave it with you to have a think about shall I?” So it was blackmail then when all was said and done; dressed up in the finery of promises and gifts but horrid blackmail all the same.

“How will I find you when I’ve made a decision?” he asked as she started to walk away.

 “Oh don’t you worry about that sweetheart, I’ll find you.” She turned her back and walked out leaving Castiel alone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Part 17**

**Monday 9 th September 1844  **

 

The walk into the village that morning had been steady and determined. The return journey passed quickly in a blur of uncomfortable anxiety. Meg’s threats hung over Castiel like a heavy black cloud, its pressure bearing down on his shoulders and putting strain on the muscles in his neck, until his head throbbed and burned from it.

Castiel did not fear for himself. He could escape the harshest consequences of a smear on his character by the simple expediency of leaving. He was no one, unknown and unremarkable outside of Blackthorn Hall. Nothing that happened here was likely to follow him when he moved on, as long as he was careful. Castiel’s fear was all for Dean and it was so strong that all the anger and disappointment he had held onto from the night before, faded into the background. Dean would not be able to escape the smear of scandal; he was tied to this place, shackled by the Hall and estate that he loved so much, by history and by blood. Though it left a bitter taste in Castiel’s mouth to acknowledge it, Dean’s marriage to Miss Fairdale might be the best defence against any accusation that Meg might level at them.

Dean was in the study. Castiel had asked after him, even before the door was closed at his back. If Castiel had been paying more attention to anything outside of his own thoughts and concerns, he might have noticed that all was quiet at Blackthorn, no snap and clunk of guns or yap of dogs or chatter of ladies' voices raised together in levity, but he did not.

He hesitated outside for a moment, still flushed and out of breath from his walk. He suddenly felt anxious about facing Dean.

“Come in,” Dean barked from the other side of the door a few seconds after Castiel knocked. He already sounded irritable and Castiel’s spirits sank even further. This was unlikely to go well, but nevertheless it had to be done, so he pushed the door open and went inside. Dean sat behind a large desk that dominated the room. Castiel had never seen him look so much like the Master of Blackthorn as he did just then, silent and serious with his papers spread before him and a pen in his hand, black ink staining his fingers where the nib had leaked. He was more used to seeing Dean pace up and down as he talked, or standing before the map table pointing out the boundaries of his overseas property and describing exotic places Castiel could hardly imagine and would never see. Dean had looked happy as he had drawn Castiel into the conversation and traced his fingers over the brightly coloured pages of the big unrolled maps.

Now Dean looked dour, drab, and troubled. There was bruising around the edge of his mouth and a dark line bisected his bottom lip, where the split had scabbed over. His expression was a forced blank and when he looked up and saw Castiel, it turned to stone. Castiel’s heart squeezed painfully in response, but he forced himself to disregard it, this was more important than hurt feelings and arguments.

“What do you want?” Dean looked down as though there was something terribly interesting on the papers in front of him, some problem that demanded his immediate attention. “If you’ve come to apologise, don’t bother,” he snapped.

“That’s not why I’m...” Castiel did not get to finish.

Dean lifted his head. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

Castiel stammered, unsure how to start, but once he pushed the first words of the story out from behind his teeth, the rest followed easily. It tumbled out in a rush, until the words started to bump up against each other and he had to take a breath, slow down. He told Dean everything he could remember about the woman, how she had followed him into the church, and then about her threats. He might have glossed over the exact details of what she was offering, but that was not really the important part was it? Dean listened intently, and his expression moved from surprise, to anger, to worry, and then circled right back to anger again.

As Castiel brought the story to a close, Dean pushed up out of his chair. He was tense and there was something very raw and unschooled about the way he held himself, animalistic and alert. He looked dangerous. This was yet another Dean that Castiel did not recognise. He had once thought that Dean was a mystery, an enigmatic and fascinating composite of mismatched parts that could only be understood by standing back and looking at the whole. For one moment Castiel had thought that he had seen Dean as he really was, unguarded and complete, but it was clear now that Castiel had been mistaken – the mystery had returned.

Dean walked around to the front of the desk and pinned Castiel to the spot with a look. His eyes glinted like polished malachite. “What exactly did she say?” Dean demanded. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest.

“I just told you everything she said.”

“No,” Dean said as he shook his head. “What you told me was that you think this ‘Meg’ is trying to blackmail us. I’m asking you to tell me exactly what she said. When she talked about payment what words did she use?”

“Well,” Castiel struggled with the memory. The whole thing was so strange it felt unreal. “She said she wasn’t interested in money right away and that she would come back for payment sometime later. Maybe it was some kind of slang?” he offered as explanation.

There was a dark smile on Dean’s face. “I know what she meant,” he said. “We can sort this out, Cas, don’t worry, it’s not as bad as you think.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I said don’t worry about it,” Dean returned with finality in his tone. “Just do me a favour and go find Sam for me and send him in here, I think he’s moping about in the garden or something now that Jess has gone home. Sam and I can get this sorted out straight away.” It made sense that Dean would want Sam’s help. It was likely they would buy Meg’s silence and bind it with some sort of contract and Sam’s training in the law would be a help. “Then go and see to Ben,” Dean continued, “which I think is what you should have been doing this morning anyway.” Dean’s words trailed off and when he spoke again the sharp edge had gone from his voice. “What were you doing in the village today anyway? I don’t pay you to go swanning about all over the place when you’re supposed to be here.”

Castiel was unprepared for the abrupt change in topic and tone and he stumbled over his reply. “I needed to post some letters,” he hedged. He had been so busy planning the rest of his life in his head, he had forgotten that other people needed to know about his plans.

Dean frowned. “But you don’t know anyone,” he said bluntly. “Who were you writing to?” He demanded as if he had a right to know.

Castiel found it hard to look Dean in the eyes. It felt as if he was confessing to some transgression, though he knew he was not, and in light of what had happened with Meg, it was evident that it would be better for Castiel to leave. He took a breath and made his confession.

“I’m advertising for a new position. I think... I think it is the proper thing to do, given the circumstances.”

Dean looked like Castiel had struck him again. “No, you can’t.” He unfolded his arms and put his hands on the desk behind him, shifting his weight back as if he needed the support.

“Dean, you told me to go.” Castiel was not about to forget the words that had sliced into him so viciously the night before ‘ _Why don’t you just forget everything and fuck off back where you came from_ ,’ there was no way to misunderstand that.

“I didn’t... What about Ben?”

“Ben will be fine. He’ll understand. Children are remarkably resilient and if you prefer I can stay until you’ve found a suitable replacement.” Castiel had spent so much of his life using that flat monotone voice that it came easily to him now, when he needed it to hide the way the words stuck and scraped like gravel in his throat. The look in Dean’s eye was raw pain and Castiel could hardly stand to see it, even though it was a misery Dean had made for himself and one he deserved to feel.

“I don’t allow it,” Dean said. But his voice was weak, and it lacked any semblance of command as he looked down at his shoes in a childlike way.

“You are my employer Dean, not my owner.” It came out colder than Castiel meant it too. He softened his voice and added, “I think it would be best for everyone to get this sorted out now, and I doubt Miss Fairdale will want me here when she takes up residence. I’m more than a little aware of the Fairdale’s opinion of tutors, if you remember, though I hope you will not capitulate and let her send Ben away, school would not suit him.”

“Miss Fairdale? Miss Fairdale can go to hell for all I care!” Dean spat. “I don’t care anything about Maria and I doubt she’ll ever set foot in Blackthorn again, since I sent her and the whole damn lot of them away first thing this morning.”

“But what I saw last night... I don’t understand, you kissed her,” Castiel said and somehow it sounded like an accusation instead of a statement, “and it wasn’t the first time.”

Dean blinked in surprise at that. “It wasn’t the first time, but that was all before...” he trailed off as if he had lost the correct words to use. Then Dean looked up and held Castiel’s gaze with a new resolve. “It wasn’t the first time, but it was definitely the last.” He stepped nearer, and Castiel felt that familiar twist-and-pull deep inside his chest, unwanted though it was. Dean shook his head and looked away. “I can’t explain everything to you right now, Cas, but don’t go, not yet at least.”

“Dean, I told you once that I would do anything you asked, but this isn’t your decision to make and I didn’t settle on it lightly, as I think you know.” Castiel tried hard to stick to the course he had resolved, but it was hard to focus as Dean moved closer still. Were they about to fight or end up wrapped around each other on the paper littered desk? Both outcomes seemed just as likely right then.

Dean put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. It was a light press, no more, reminiscent of the first touches he had given when Castiel had believed there was only friendship between them. He tipped his head forward to make sure he had Castiel’s full attention, as if anything else was even possible.

“I can’t force you to change your mind,” Dean said. “And I’m not going to try and use logic on you, but I’m asking you to stay, Cas. Please just stay.”

“Why?” Castiel asked tilting his head to the side as though it would help him decipher Dean if he could see him from another angle.

“Because I want you to.” Dean squeezed Castiel’s shoulder, though he made no move to close the gap between them. Castiel nodded, it was not an agreement, but Castiel was not going anywhere soon, and there was time, he could give Dean that. “Now go get Sam and I’ll find you later,” Dean said and shoved Castiel towards the door.


	18. Chapter 18

**Part 18**

**Tuesday 10 th September 1844  **

At the staccato sound of a knock on his door, Castiel jerked awake in his chair. The candle on the desk had burned itself out and it took a moment to get his bearings with the room bathed only in thin blue-tinged moonlight.

“It’s done,” Dean said in a solemn voice. He did not whisper, but there was a strange intensity as he spoke, and the silence afterwards was filled with fragile tension like waiting for a fuse to catch alight.  

Castiel nodded absently as he tried to shake off the torpor of sleep.

“What’s done?” he asked, then immediately regretted it as he noticed the state of Dean’s clothes. He was dishevelled, in well-worn travelling clothes that Castiel had rarely seen. They were spattered with globs of mud and patches of something russet coloured that Castiel did not want to contemplate. Castiel combed his hand through his hair, then scrubbed it down over his face to remove the last vestiges of sleep. He heard the click of Dean’s throat as the other man swallowed.

“I need to show you something.” Dean looked away down the corridor and blinked nervously before he looked back at Castiel. “I know you’re probably going to hate me after this, but I don’t think it’s fair to ask you to stay unless you know everything.”

A seed of worry wormed its way into Castiel’s heart. Dean was half in shadow, the glow from the lantern he carried emphasised the angles and slopes of his face and picked out the tiny golden flecks in his irises.

Castiel sighed. “Of course, Dean.” It seemed he would always end up doing whatever Dean asked even when he struggled against the inclination. Castiel stepped out into the dark corridor then turned and locked the door behind him, as was still the custom at Blackthorn. “Where are we going?”

“Be quiet, Cas,” Dean shushed him, “I don’t want to wake anyone. No one else needs to know about this.” Dean led Castiel down into the lower parts of the Hall taking care to avoid noisy floorboards and the worst of the creaky doors. The hush of night was all around them as they went, disturbed only by the soft tick of the clocks in the Hall and the uneasy stutter of Castiel’s heart. He was gripped by apprehension as he followed behind Dean and the pool of orange light that wavered around him as a lantern swayed in his grip. The anxiety only increased as Dean led him through the kitchens and further on into the cellars, through the stores and dusty recesses of the Hall. Castiel had never been into the store rooms before, the dank atmosphere and repeated warnings from Ellen about not interfering with the traps and hunting equipment that Bobby kept down here, was enough to put him off. 

“Dean, please, what is this about? Why have you brought me here?” He could not keep his silence any longer and there was no one down there in the depths of the Hall to disturb; only the old furniture piled haphazardly and abandoned to the spiders, the damp, and the slow decay of time.

“It’s not something I can explain, you really need to see it for yourself,” Dean stopped and turned to face him. “I really need you to trust me on this, Cas.”  

“Alright, Dean,” Castiel agreed. The passages they walked twisted and turned and Castiel began to suspect they had left behind the confines of the Hall. The corridors and cells seemed to trace the foundations of a different building, one that had long ago passed into memory. The only sound was their muffled footfalls and Castiel’s unease grew the further they went. He kept his eyes fixed on Dean’s back.

“This isn’t part of the Hall?” Castiel asked eventually, if nothing else it served to drown out the loud thump of his heart.

“No and yes. It was part of the Hall that used to stand here.”

“The dungeons?” Castiel asked seriously. The arched tunnels were made of rough hewn stone and the walls ran with damp. The scent of mould and mildew was pungent in the air. Dean laughed and the sound echoed down the tunnel and returned, strangely warped as it bounced back to their ears, as if the very substance of the place was incompatible with any kind of joy.

“They might have been used for that, I don’t know. Sam might know. He’s looked into the history of the place. It was more like a castle originally, fortified against attack you know, didn’t do much good though, most of it was destroyed by the Roundheads. There are just these tunnels and the tower left of it now. The Hall, as we know it, was built soon after that.” Castiel was glad for the distraction of Dean’s voice even though he had already had most of the Hall’s history from Ellen, including the obligatory “Mary Queen of Scots stayed here,” tale - an essential accessory for every grand house in the Country. Castiel ran his finger over the surface of the wall. It was cold and slimy and made him grimace as he wiped the residue off, rubbing his fingers on the dark fabric covering his thighs.

“Well I hope for Gwen’s sake, that the tower is nicer than this,” Castiel grumbled.

“It is.” Dean replied abruptly.

And just like that, Castiel was anxious again. He was certain now that whatever lay at the end of this bizarre journey was not going to make him happy, and a cowardly part of Castiel wanted to turn tail and run, but he could not.

They turned a corner and he saw light spilling out into the gloom up ahead. It seeped from around the edge of an ill-fitted door set back into a small arched alcove. There were voices coming from behind it, but Castiel could not clearly make out the words. Dean stopped suddenly and Castiel nearly slammed into his back. It made him stumble and he had to put his hand on the clammy wall again to stay on his feet.

“I wanted to tell you about this before.” Dean did not turn when he spoke, and Castiel could tell from the way Dean’s jaw clenched and twitched, that he tried to keep his words steady and emotionless. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t put this burden on you. Knowing about this is dangerous, Cas, to you and to us, but after what happened today, I realised that they’re going to try to get to you anyway, so it’s probably better that you know.” He shrugged, it was supposed to be nonchalant, but Dean was too tense and his body betrayed it in the awkward jerking action.

“This is about what happened with Meg?”

Dean nodded and wiped a hand across his eyes. “She targeted you to get to me, Cas, and if one of them knows about you there might be others. Not all of them are going to try to make a deal, believe it or not, this was actually a good thing. We can get you prepared so that you know how to protect yourself.”

“Dean, I don’t understand.”

“You will.” He sounded sad. “There have been signs that something was coming. Bobby’s been tracking them for months, animal deaths, lightning storms, disappearances, and she’s just a part of it.” The words triggered a fall of memories, they trickled through Castiel’s mind as he tried to make sense of what Dean said, until something snagged and clicked into place.

“You mean the disappearances at Barlow?” Castiel asked. It had been nearly a year, yet he could picture that first evening with Dean as clearly as if it was yesterday, and the look on Dean’s face as Bobby had said that name, was mirrored line for line in the look Dean wore now, standing under the earth with a lantern hanging from his hand and a mystery waiting to be solved behind an ancient mouldering door. “And the people that died there, you think Meg had something to do with that?” It seemed vaguely absurd that those things should have anything to do with Meg and her attempts at blackmail.

“Yes.” Dean looked surprised and a little pleased for a moment before his face fell again. He lowered the lantern as he moved towards the door and the shape of his face looked strange and distorted in the movement of the shadows. “I want you to know everything, even if it makes you hate me. I’ll tell you anything else you want to know afterwards.”

“Alright,” replied Castiel, he took a breath and frowned.

“And, Cas,” Dean said with a sad smile, “Try not to faint or anything.”

“Yes, Dean I’ll try,” he replied automatically. He was hardly aware of what he said, given the eerie feeling chasing its way across his arms and back. A sharp high pitched yelp from behind the closed door rent the air and made Castiel jump; it did nothing to quell the growing feeling of dread. He tried his best to keep calm, school his expression into that familiar placidity he had worn for so long.

Dean opened the door. The room was small and unremarkable at first glance. At some point in time someone had attempted to make improvements and the walls were plastered and painted, unlike the passage outside, but the paint had bubbled and peeled away and mould had been allowed to bloom across it in dark circles. There were fat wax candles in old fashioned iron sconces dotted along the walls. Trails of wax, that dripped down the walls like stalactites, told tales of long and frequent use; but what stood out were the symbols, painted in black on each wall, on the ceiling, and more significantly in a large circle on the floor, where Meg was bound, bruised and bloody, right in the centre of it.

Bobby stood over her. His teeth were bared in aggression and his hand curled around the handle of a vicious looking knife. Red gore dripped from the end of it onto the cold stone floor. Bobby looked up and nodded curtly to Dean as he led Castiel in, but otherwise his expression remained grim.

“What is this?” Castiel demanded to know. There was no sense to be found in the picture in front of him. He tried to back away, but he bumped up against Dean who had moved to stand behind him in expectation of Castiel’s horror at the scene. He put his hands on Castiel’s arms and held him, his fingers gripped lightly at first, pressed the flesh above Castiel’s elbows, but as he tried to shift out of the hold they clamped down harder to restrain him and keep him still. The woman on the floor laughed and raised her head. Her eyes were a solid black that shone like polished jet.

“Poor Castiel, so innocent,” she crooned. Her voice sounded strange, weak like an echo, not the rich syrupy tones he remembered from the church. “You should have taken that deal, sweetheart. Now,” she made an attempt at a shrug then grimaced as only one shoulder cooperated. “Now you can see for yourself what Dean really is... a thug, a killer. He’ll kill you too most likely when he works it out, or at the very least make you wish you were dead. He has that effect on people, don’t you Dean?”

“Stop talking,” Bobby shouted and punched her in the mouth. Castiel tried to move forward. Whatever lies she spewed, as casually as she spat blood out onto the floor, he could not stand to see her beaten while she lay there so helplessly. Dean still held him back.

“Don’t listen to her, Cas,” Dean growled into his ear. “She’s just a murdering, lying, piece of shit.”

Meg started to shake, her whole body shuddered with it, Castiel thought she was crying but then she opened her mouth and laughed again, blood flecked spittle flying out along with the vicious sound.

“Hmm, Bobby, why don’t you do that again. I think this body’s starting to like it,” she gasped out. Then she looked at Dean who was watching her over Castiel’s shoulder. “You destroy everything, Dean, what makes you think this one’s going to be any different?” She cocked one eyebrow and grinned, her teeth were stained a gruesome red.

Castiel struggled to free himself from Dean’s hands. “What’s going on, Dean? Bobby? For God’s sake will someone tell me what’s happening?” Meg still laughed and Bobby left fly with a kick to her stomach. Castiel winced at the dull thud as his boot made contact.

“Sam, will you just get on with it,” Dean called. In his confusion, Castiel had not noticed Sam was in the room. The corner where he sat on an old narrow couch was dingy with shadows.

“We still don’t know enough about why she’s here,” Sam argued in a solemn voice, “or if any of the others know about Castiel.”

“If she hasn’t talked by now, she isn’t going to,” said Bobby. He did not take his eyes from the woman on the floor. “And she’s right, the girl might still be alive in there,” he looked over at Dean and raised his eyebrows.

“Do it, Sam,” Dean said. “I need you to watch this, Cas,” he added quietly so that only Castiel could hear. “I’ll explain everything, but you won’t believe it if you don’t see it for yourself. Ghosts aren’t the only thing out there in the dark and I need you to see it.” Dean whispered, his breath warm on Castiel’s skin, “Trust me.”

Meg laughed and there was a hysterical edge to it that shook her body and left her gasping for air. “Oh you Winchesters” she rasped. Sam approached the painted circle with a tattered old book open in his hand. He started to read from it in Latin.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus.” His voice started off low and steady, each word spoken clear and precise over the horrible noises of Meg’s pain. Castiel watched it all in stunned silence.

“You think you know don’t you, what’s to come? You know nothing! None of you do, just wait until you see what we’ve got planned.” Her face twisted and she clutched her stomach. Her eyes rolled madly in their sockets, flashing from black, to white, to the regular brown Castiel had seen at the Inn. Foam flecked her lips as she raved. “You’re so fucking stupid,” she growled through clenched teeth. Her fingers clawed uselessly at the air. “You don’t even know what he’s got locked away in there.”

The volume of Sam’s voice increased as he picked up the tempo. “Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”

Castiel recognised the words of the exorcism. He opened his mouth to ask if they were all mad, or if perhaps he had gone mad, but Castiel did not get that far. Meg started to gasp in pain, she writhed and thrashed as though she was being burned alive. She dragged herself up so that she was on her hands and knees, crouched, while she let out an animal-like snarl and bared her teeth. All the while Sam’s voice rang out.

“Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.”

At the last words, Meg convulsed, it was a big horrible movement, and she spat a, “see you later boys,” at them from between her teeth. There was a scream, a single raw cry that fled past Castiel and out the door cutting through the inky darkness of the tunnels beyond.

Castiel covered his ears but he could not cover his eyes and he watched transfixed as a stream of thick black smoke gushed from her mouth. She vomited it onto the floor, where it moved and twisted and tried to rush towards them until it hit the invisible barrier of the circle marked on the ground. Meg’s body fell, crumpling inwards like a screwed up piece of paper, as the last of the thick smog left her. The living smoke made one last dash around the circle as if it was trying to find a weak spot, then sank into the ground with a hiss and a crackle, leaving the floor singed and smouldering. A smell of charring and sulphur filled the air.

Castiel could still feel Dean standing behind him. At some point, Dean had moved and had one arm slung around Castiel’s waist and the other angled up and across his torso, Dean’s hand splayed out over Castiel’s heart. He was holding Castiel up and supporting his weight.

“You were shaking,” Dean explained, “it’s a shock. Sometimes people faint the first time they see it.” He did not move away.

“A demon?” Castiel asked, even though he already knew the answer. Dean chuckled at the blunt question.

It was Bobby who answered. “Yep, sorry you had to find out like this, son, but demons are real, monsters are real, ghosts are real – but then you already knew about that one didn’t you.”

In the midst of the horror, Castiel recalled something from the year before, a memory long disregarded as nonsense. “What about the Beast of Blue Moor?” Castiel asked. Bobby snorted and Sam laughed from where he was crouched over the prone body of the girl on the floor, his fingers pressed to her throat.

Dean answered the question. “It’s real, or at least it was once. We killed it years ago. The stories keep people in at night though, which isn’t a bad thing.” The pressure of Dean’s arms around him increased fractionally before he let go and moved away.

“You killed it,” Castiel repeated. He tried but failed to find any kind of sense in the statement.

“Come on.” Dean slid his hand around Castiel’s wrist, his fingers circled in a loose grip. “We need to talk about this.” Castiel let Dean lead him from the room. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Part 19**

**Tuesday 10 th September 1844  **

 

Everything was questions and confusion as Dean guided Castiel back to his bedchamber with a light touch to his wrist, on his arm, or at his shoulder. Layered over Castiel’s shock was a suspicion and a doubt that anything that had just happened was real. He handed over the key to his room when Dean asked for it and then Castiel was urged inside by a hand placed carefully at the small of his back. The latch made a soft snick of a noise as Dean pushed the door closed behind them. Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, his head still felt fogged, as though his thoughts were stuck inside one of Cook’s calf’s-foot jellies.

Silver flashed in front of his eyes as Dean waved a small rectangular hip flask at him. The burn as the spirit slipped down Castiel’s gullet was harsh, but it warmed and comforted him all the same.

The bed dipped as Dean sat down beside him. “Are you going to be alright, Cas?” Dean asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Castiel answered, and he was almost surprised to find it was the truth. Dean also seemed to have doubts and he leaned in close to Castiel’s face in the dim light, as if he could judge whether or not Castiel was being honest just by looking. “I think somehow I knew there was something wrong with that girl.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t really know. When I saw her at the Inn, I didn’t like it. It felt like she shouldn’t be there, like she belonged somewhere else. Then when I talked to her in the church, it felt strange... uncomfortable.”

“Demons will do that to you, they’re sneaky fuckers.” Dean was the expert and all Castiel could do was believe him.

“She wasn’t always a demon was she?” It was strange how easily he had learned to accept all of Blackthorn’s revelations, be they horrific, distressing, or astonishing, all had been unexpected, yet he did not fear the changes they heralded. Castiel had just seen a terrible thing, had witnessed evil manifested in flesh and blood, but the first shock of understanding was already grown soft at the edges – it felt more like a memory than anything else.

“No. She was possessed. The black smoke was the demon. If it gets in you it can control you.”

“Did she know?” Castiel asked swallowing back the bile that rose when he thought about the things the demon might have done with the girl’s body. “Did the girl know what was happening? Was she conscious?”

“I don’t know, Cas. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t, sometimes they live, sometimes they die, but we try to help and we send as many of them back to Hell as we can.” Dean was animated as he talked and there was a fierce look in his eyes. “Cas, I’m sorry you had to see all that, but you had a right know what was going on. Did I do the right thing?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel answered without hesitation.

Dean smiled. “Good,” he said. Then his face became serious and he looked down at his hands.

“Ellen told you about what happened to our mother didn’t she?” Dean’s voice was strained. “Well what most people don’t know, is that the fire wasn’t an accident. There was something else in the house with us that night, something not human. My father saw it for a second, there was a man with yellow eyes in Sam’s nursery, standing in the middle of the fire. My father managed to get Sam from his cot and gave him to me to take outside, but he couldn’t get to her, to our mother.” Dean stopped and took the flask of whiskey back from Castiel and their fingers brushed together. Castiel had not even realised he still had it in his hands. “It wasn’t until one night when he was drunk years later that he told me what had really happened to her. She didn’t just die from the fire like everyone thinks she did. She was sliced open like an animal and pinned to the ceiling to bleed out.” Dean’s face twisted horribly, as anger and gut wrenching loss battled for dominance. He took a long drink from the flask and cleared his throat to recover his composure.

Castiel was moved by the need to comfort him. His former anger all but swept away by the strange turn of events and the return of a Dean that Castiel recognised, the Dean that he wanted.

“Do you remember it?” Castiel asked.

Dean looked at him in disbelief. “No one’s ever asked me that before,” he said. “I remember the fire and my father shouting, and running down the stairs holding Sam, then it’s just a big white blank until I was outside, I remember thinking that the thorns on the bramble bush might hurt Sam or get caught in my clothes but they didn’t. And that’s it, that’s all I remember.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“It’s ok, Cas,” he said, but there was a soft something in Dean’s gaze that grabbed at Castiel’s attention and held it fast. “Anyway after that, he, our father I mean, he became obsessed with finding the thing he saw in the nursery and along the way he discovered there are a whole host of other nasty things just waiting out there to get you.”

“And you think it’s your job to fight them?”

“To fight them maybe not, but to protect people? Yes, someone has to do it. Someone has to make a stand so that everyone else can go around ignoring what’s going on out there. Our father started it, and Sam and me, we carry on.” He paused and shook his head. “To be honest, this is all I’ve known since I was five years old. I don’t know any other way to be, I don’t think there is another way, not for me anyway. And now the monsters and the demons come after us half the time, that’s why Meg tried to make a deal with you – to get to me.”

“She was trying to make a deal? I thought she was trying to blackmail us?”

“You’re thinking like a human. Demons aren’t interested in money. She wasn’t asking you for cash she was trying to buy your soul.”

“Oh,” said Castiel as though it made perfect sense.

A small frown line creased the space between Dean’s eyebrows when he looked up. “What did she offer you anyway?”

Castiel suddenly found the dirt under his fingernails the most fascinating thing in the world, he hemmed and hawed for a few seconds, as a warm flush crept incriminatingly across his face.

 “You,” Castiel said quietly. Then he looked up at Dean and said with more conviction. “She offered me you.” Dean snorted. Castiel looked away embarrassed and rubbed one hand across the back of his neck nervously.

“Well, she was way off the mark with that then wasn’t she?” Dean reached out and angled his fingers along Castiel’s jaw. Dean forcibly turned him back so that they faced each other when Castiel tried to pull away, flustered and self-conscious. They were no more than a breath apart. “Because you’ve already got me, Cas, if that’s what you want?”

Castiel’s breath hitched as Dean leaned forward and slanted their mouths together, in a dry push of lips. It was neither the gentle brush of their first kiss nor the hard violence of their last, but somewhere balanced on a fine edge between the two. Castiel sank into it, and without a thought he slid a hand across to cradle the jut of Dean’s hip and hauled him in as close as possible. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the smooth glide of their mouths and the exchange of warm breaths, lightly scented with the tang of whiskey.

There was a break in the contact as Castiel moved back to put a little space between them. His lips tingled with the tantalising taste of Dean and his head swum with all the possibilities he had thought were lost. Castiel’s gaze wandered from Dean’s eyes down to his parted lips, and the hard dark line of broken skin that Castiel’s own fist had inflicted, then back up to take in every detail along the way. Just under Dean’s hairline was the faint pink line of a scar, the one from the night of the fire, when Castiel had pulled Dean from the flames and was rewarded with that first fleeting kiss. Castiel ran the pads of his fingers over it. The action was innocent enough, but the contact sent tiny shivers coursing across his skin.

“Do you mean that?” Castiel asked. He needed to know, he needed to look at Dean and see that he really meant what he said, that they were in it together this time without fear or disguise. He needed to know that Dean would not run. Dean put a hand to the back of Castiel’s neck and pressed forward so that their foreheads touched. The moment was heavy with silence but Dean broke through it with rough edged words that Castiel had not expected to hear.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Dean said. Castiel could not help but agree with the slight upwards quirk of a smile. “I’ve been such an idiot, Cas, but I want to make it right. I want you to stay at Blackthorn, with me.” Dean sat up straight so that he could hold Castiel’s gaze. “I had to tell you about the hunting, about what Sam and I do, because it’s such a huge part of my life. I didn’t think it was right to ask you to stay without knowing everything, but now you know so...  will you stay?” It was not exactly an apology. Dean did not say he was sorry for what had gone before, but then he did not really need to. Castiel could see the ‘sorry’ written plain in every movement of Dean’s body, every touch they shared, and hidden under every word that fell from the bow of his mouth. “Castiel, will you stay with me?” Dean asked again.

“Yes.” It was barely a word, spoken soft and under Castiel’s breath. There was a whisper of doubt, in an aching moment it flashed like lightning through Castiel’s mind, _it’s impossible, it’s a lie, it’s wrong,_ but they were nothing but falsehoods that belonged to other minds, to other voices that did not matter to Dean or Castiel. “Yes, Dean Winchester, I will,” Castiel repeated with conviction. “I’ll stay,” Castiel added, “on one condition.” There was want in Dean’s face and it gave Castiel confidence; made him brave and determined. Dean raised one eyebrow. “That you stay with me tonight.” A wolfish grin spread over Dean’s face, he understood Castiel perfectly and did not need to be asked twice.

Dean’s hands were firm as he urged Castiel further up onto the bed. Castiel was abandoned there for a moment as Dean turned away to unravel the ties that held the heavy scarlet curtains at each corner of the bed. They fell into place around the wooden-framed bed with a faint shushing sound. The thick drapes muffled the sounds of the night and the world outside and made it dark, the meagre light from the lantern almost useless through the close-weaved threads. It did not matter. They had touch and taste to navigate by, between the shades and the sheets.

Dean’s fingers tangled in Castiel’s thick hair as he stretched out over him and pressed their mouths together. Castiel opened up at the first swipe of Dean’s tongue at the seam of his lips, and delighted in the intrusion as it dipped into his mouth, hot and wet. Dean’s hand slipped up underneath the hem of his shirt. It came to rest over Castiel’s hip and he felt nails scratch over the bone where his skin stretched thin. It sent tendrils of urgent pleasure spinning out and over Castiel’s body, spreading like ripples across water.

In return, Castiel’s hands moved restlessly over Dean’s body. His fingers worked over Dean’s face to trace the outline of his eyelids where eyelashes tickled Castiel’s fingertips, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, down over the stubble on his jaw, and on to the nexus of their mouths. Castiel wanted to feel every moment that they shared with every sense. But he needed more, needed to feel Dean’s skin on his own, wanted to press into Dean’s flesh, and claim him with marks that screamed ‘mine’ and ‘taken’ and ‘beloved’ without cruel edged letters or black words.

They worked together to divest each other of clothes, quick but not rushed, not like the last time. As he moved his hands over the hard planes of Dean’s body, Castiel was glad of it. They had the rest of the night to explore and map every pale inch that was revealed. They painted their elation on each other’s bodies with teeth and the red crescent-moons of hard fingernails, and then sealed and soothed with the press of lips and tongue.

Dean’s hands flowed over Castiel like water, silken and smooth over skin that had been touched by no hands other than his own. Castiel shivered and moaned from the attention, sounds of pleasure and desire dragged from a throat that had not known such things. There was a devilish smile on Dean’s lips as he moved down Castiel’s body in a sinuous slide. Dean dropped kisses and nipped at the skin on Castiel’s chest, stomach, hips, and thighs as he went. He looked up to make sure Castiel was watching him then lowered his head and licked a firm stripe up the underside of Castiel’s cock. Castiel gasped at the sensation and his hips bucked upwards involuntarily, or they tried to, but Dean’s hands were on him, pressing him down into the soft mattress below. Dean allowed a moment to let the rush of feeling subside then his mouth was on Castiel again. He swallowed him down further than Castiel though possible, sucking and licking all the way. It was almost too much. Heat spiked down Castiel’s spine in hot flashes. His head fell back against the pillow and the bed sheets twisted in Castiel’s fingers as the heat built and built.   

“You look good like this,” Dean said as he pulled away and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. Even in the shadow, Castiel could see how bright Dean’s eyes shone as they looked at each other. 

“Really?” Castiel replied. “I wouldn’t know, you’re the only one to have ever seen it,” Dean’s grin widened and he licked his lips lasciviously, and Castiel felt a curl of pleasure at the fact that this was a part of him that completely belonged to Dean. There, in the little world inside the curtains of the bed, was a Castiel that no one else would ever know, a Castiel that was Dean’s alone. “You don’t have to stop,” Castiel said. He lifted his foot and used it to try and nudge Dean back between his legs, but Dean wriggled free and clambered back up the bed instead.

“I want you like this so I can see you better,” Dean explained. He wrapped his arms around Castiel's waist and gathered him in close in a movement that brought their bodies’ flush from head to toe. Dean rolled their hips together in a languid motion as he breathed into Castiel's open mouth. It felt good as their erections bumped and rubbed together, sweat and Dean’s spit made it a smooth sensual slide of flesh on flesh.

Castiel did not want to deny Dean anything, but he had desires and ideas of his own to explore. Secret thoughts that Castiel dreamed up in the nights after Dean had pressed him to the billiard table and left him there covered in come. Dean had awoken something in Castiel that night and it had made him want things he had never been interested in before. He lacked experience, not knowledge – and this was his chance to put that right – Dean would not get everything his own way.

“You know it’s bad for people to always get what they want, Dean,” Castiel retorted as he escaped the cage of Dean’s arms.

He dragged his mouth across Dean’s stomach. He tasted of salty sweat, and his muscles jumped and tensed in reaction to each press of his lips. Castiel liked the way Dean twitched beneath him, but he had a destination in mind so he moved on and down. Dean’s erection curved up, red, swollen and beaded with liquid. The sight of it arrested Castiel’s progress on his journey down Dean’s body; he could not resist the temptation and darted out his tongue to taste it. He let the head of Dean’s cock rest on his tongue for a moment, thick and heavy with blood, then he licked it clean. Dean groaned and grabbed on to the wooden bed frame above his head as his hips juddered and pushed up against Castiel’s hands. In the false twilight of that closed off space, Castiel could see Dean perfectly. His eyes shone bright, and his tanned flesh was dewed with sweat, and Dean’s whole body was peppered with clusters of freckles, they were like patches of dappled sunlight permanently inked onto his skin and Castiel chased them over the hard contours of Dean’s thighs.

He was the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever seen and he was breathtaking, like something divine. Castiel burned with love for Dean and wanted him like he had never wanted anything before. It was terrifying and wonderful, and it felt like ecstasy, like Dean had been gifted to him by God. They were blessed.

Castiel’s skin tingled and his cock ached, and Castiel needed to get closer, to feel Dean alive and vital. He shook off the hesitancy of inexperience and let the demands and impulses of his body and his heart take control. There was a surprised yelp from Dean as Castiel moved away and then flipped Dean over onto his stomach.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Dean mumbled into the pillow.

Castiel did not reply. He stretched up over Dean’s body until they were connected chest to back. The scent that slipped from Dean’s skin was like earth and leather and Castiel took a moment just to breathe it in. The breath caught in Castiel’s throat as Dean pushed his hips back in a delicious little rolling action that brought Castiel’s cock into contact with the cleft of Dean’s arse. Dean looked back over his shoulder and threw Castiel a knowing smirk that turned to stunned surprise and gasps as Castiel slid back down quickly, pushed Dean’s legs apart and pressed his mouth to the puckered ring hidden between Dean’s buttocks.

“Cas, you don’t have to...” Dean’s words dissolved into random noises and were lost as Castiel licked a firm line across the muscle. There was a twitch under Castiel’s tongue as he prodded at Dean with his tongue. It was hot and intimate as he kissed and lapped up Dean’s earthy, salty human taste. The sheets twisted in Dean’s hands and he moaned in choked out bursts with his face shoved into the pillows to muffle the sounds. Castiel pressed in again and again to wet and loosen the tight muscle as Dean shivered and pushed his hips in tiny stuttered movements to rub his hardened flesh against the cotton bed sheets. Castiel’s cock twitched, jealous and urgent, aching for some attention of its own.  

Dean moved away as he twisted to turn onto his back, corralling Castiel back up towards him where he ran his hands across Castiel’s shoulders and looked into his face.

“ Jesus Christ, Cas, how did you know to do that?” Dean asked. He was still panting slightly and visibly flushed. “Not that I mind or anything, but I kind of assumed that this stuff was new to you.”

Castiel smiled. “And by stuff you mean sex?”

“Yes, sex stuff, isn’t that what I said?”

“It is new to me in practise,” Castiel replied, “But Dean, I lived in a boarding school for boys for most of my life, you would have to be deaf and blind, not to come away from that knowing at least something about sex.”

“Good,” Dean said, pulling Castiel down into a bruising kiss. He pushed his tongue into Castiel’s mouth as if he wanted to lick and chase the taste of himself that lingered there. “I know it’s selfish, but I like that you’re mine and no one else’s. Is that bad?” He punctuated each word with a kiss that seared hot and possessive.

“No,” Castiel replied, “I like it too.”

Dean pulled Castiel on top of him and there was a fascinating moment as he pushed Castiel up and put a small space between their bodies. Dean’s eyes were dark and glittering and Castiel watched enthralled as he spat into his hand and reached down between them. He jacked Castiel in slow strokes for a minute, his fingers tight, as Castiel rocked his hips into their embrace. Dean’s teeth sank down into the plump flesh of Castiel’s bottom lip to stop him from crying out as Dean picked up the pace. Then Dean’s hand was gone and Castiel whimpered at the loss of pressure.

“I want to see you when you fuck me,” Dean said bluntly. He shoved Castiel back into place between his thighs then lifted his hips in obscene invitation.

Dean’s fingers squeezed Castiel’s arse and he dug his fingertips into the soft curve of flesh, encouraging him closer. The head of Castiel’s cock bumped along the space behind Dean’s balls, trailing a wet line over taut skin. Castiel spat on his fingers, in a mimic of Dean’s action, and worked them down over the muscle of Dean’s entrance in soft strokes. He felt Dean quiver as he pressed his fingertips inside. Dean sucked in a ragged breath at the initial intrusion and Castiel pressed his lips to the inside of Dean’s thigh in some sort of apology.  

“Come on, Cas,” Dean whispered a moment later as he relaxed. “I think we’ve waited long enough.”

Castiel made no attempt to reply. His heart hammered so loud in his chest, he was sure Dean would not be able to hear him above the drumming of it anyway. He lined up and pressed against the heat of Dean’s body. There was a moment of resistance and Dean’s breath came out as a hiss, then Castiel’s cock breached the ring of muscle and slid into heat and pressure and he had to squeeze his eyes shut not to be overwhelmed by it.

The feeling of Dean surrounding him, the way he opened up and pulled Castiel in, his legs wrapped around Castiel to drag him closer and force him deeper still, was unbelievable and it leeched away all Castiel’s sense. He made a noise that was almost a sob as Dean arched up off the bed and pushed his hips down to take Castiel all the way in, until his hips were flush against Dean’s skin.

His chest heaved and Castiel thought he might pass out from the intensity as each nerve ending burst open with an electric jolt. Then there were fingers pressed into Castiel’s shoulders, hard and unrelenting – he would be wearing bruises from them for days – as Dean held him up. Instinct took control of Castiel and his hip rolled without thought, pulling out and pushing back in a mindless fleshy rhythm. His mouth hung open and his breath came out fast and half choked, fitted around sounds and ill-formed words that he dropped into the space between him and Dean, completely unaware, completely lost to the feeling of their connection.

Dean leaned up as Castiel fell down, and they met somewhere in the middle, in a messy crush, where tongues darted possessively into each other’s mouths. Everything was fingers and tongues and sweat-drenched bodies that rocked and fused together, joined in every possible way until it was impossible to tell one from the other; where Castiel ended and Dean started. Their chests pressed together and their hearts beat in time, as if they were one person.

Dean bit down on Castiel’s shoulder to stifle a shout as he came, spreading warmth over their bellies where his cock had been trapped and rubbed mercilessly between them. He collapsed boneless onto the pillow with his head throw back, lost in a kind of bliss. The lines of worry that usually marked the Master of Blackthorn slipped from Dean’s face. Tension he carried at the corner of his eye eased and disappeared. Dean looked beautiful, strangely innocent, and every inch the young man he still was. Castiel’s heart thumped hard against the inside of his ribs as it attempted to climb from his chest. His hips moved erratically a few more times. Then there was a sound in Castiel’s ears, a rush and ring, like voices raised in song, and light burst like showers of falling stars behind his eyelids as they squeezed shut. When he opened them a moment later, the light lingered and shadows rushed from the edge of his vision as he arched up, spine curved, shoulders rolled back, and Castiel looked to the heavens.

*******

They lay side by side while their breath slowed by fractions. They still touched but did not speak, as a comfortable lethargy took them, _la petite mort_ as the French call it. Outside the breeze stirred the leaves on the tall trees and made them rustle with a gentle shushing sound. They had just started to turn to autumn shades, fading from fat lush green to thin crisp gold. A fox cried in the distance, and another answered from somewhere close by, down below Castiel’s window. They paid it no heed.

Dean’s eyes were heavy lidded, but Castiel saw something else there, buried in the green depth, the shadow of a fear that should not have been there. The lines of worry crept back over Dean’s face as Castiel watched, and it creased a line between Dean’s brows. Something haunted Dean, and Castiel wanted to rip it out and trample it to dust, and he would do it if he could.

“Tell me,” Castiel demanded. He rolled so that he was half on top of Dean, and held him there so that he could not easily escape. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Dean’s face twitched unhappily. “I feel... This is...,” Dean sighed and Castiel watched the reflection of his thoughts as they chased one after the other across his face while Dean decided what to say, how to say it. “I feel like... that was too much, it’s never, I never...” his words trailed off and he looked confused. Castiel did not know what to make of it and he did not like the way Dean turned his face away to stare at nothing.

“I didn’t hurt you did I?” Castiel asked suddenly concerned that he had done something wrong.

“God no, Cas,” Dean said with a low chuckle, “nothing like that. I guess it just took me by surprise, I’ve never wanted a man like this before.”

Castiel was astounded. “But you have been with men before?”

Dean nodded. “I have but... It was never like this.” Dean turned and pressed one hand to Castiel’s chest to rest it over his heart then put the other over his own. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this with anyone. It’s different... you’re different, Cas and I feel different when I’m with you.” Dean swallowed and looked down embarrassed. “But really I’m still just me, and I ruin things, I don’t want to ruin you too.” There was heat in Castiel’s face, and an echoing stir of embers low in his belly, as he looked at Dean and understood completely what he meant.

There was a dark gleam in Dean’s eye; a terror instilled long ago, the same terror that had made Dean run from Castiel in the spring. It had nothing to do with shame or doubt, and everything to do with love and loss. Castiel shifted and took Dean’s face between his hands, not allowing him to turn away.

“Look at me, Dean,” he said. Dean’s fear was born of having already lost people he loved, but it was not one Castiel shared – why would it be? He had never had anyone to lose before. He would not allow Dean to run again or to shake himself apart with groundless fear. What they had found together was unexpected, but it was utterly necessary for them both. “Dean,” he whispered, drawing Dean’s attention with lips pressed to his sweat-sticky neck. “I’m not going to leave, do you hear me? I’m not going anywhere. You asked me to stay and I will.” He spoke with conviction, each word a bell ringing out into the darkness to lead Dean back to him.

With his blue gaze on Dean’s face, Castiel saw the exact moment when Dean gave in to Castiel’s demand. It was glorious, and Dean was glorious as the tension melted from his body. Castiel could not help but chase after it, he used his hands to push the last fragments of stress away, dragged them over Dean’s skin until he was shivering from the sensation.

*******

First light picked up a reddish hue as it filtered through the heavy red curtains. The rosy tint coloured their skin and deepened the red of their kiss stained lips to a blood-like scarlet. It added an unreal quality, as they sleepily sought each other under the covers. Their fingers teased more gently now the urgency had passed. Touches were more tentative and exploratory, as smiling lips mapped skin, traced bone, and tasted all the secret places of their bodies, while they floated, adrift from the rest of the world in a quiet sanguine land.

Castiel did not want it to end. He did not want to let go of Dean's warm freckled skin, but the birds had started to sing, and the sun climbed higher in its arc across the sky, burning off the early morning mists that hung over the harvest-naked fields. The Hall would be stirring soon, and Dean had to return to his own rooms. Meg had been right about one thing; it was imperative that no one discovered the change in the nature of their relationship – no one outside of the Hall anyway.

Dean had explained during the night, that everyone who worked or lived at the Hall long-term was trusted with the knowledge that the Winchesters were hunters. Many of the servants had come to Blackthorn after run-ins with the supernatural, and apparently once people knew that there were demons and vampires and ghosts out there waiting to get them, who anyone wanted to fuck or fall in love with was considered rather unimportant. But still, that did not apply to all the servants and it was better to be safe than sorry, especially when it was all so brand new.

"It's morning," Castiel said stating the obvious.

Dean blinked his eyes open in an exaggerated manner. “Nope, still looks like night to me.”

“The sun is up, you should go back to...” Castiel did not get any further when Dean captured his mouth and pressed him down into the pillows, stealing and swallowing the words he did not want to hear. Castiel pushed him away. "Do you want Ellen to come looking for us?" he asked. "Somehow I don't think this is something she needs to see."

Dean smirked and pushed the covers away, then sat back on his heels looking at Castiel's body appreciatively.

"I don't know," he said with a leer, "it might give her something to think about on cold nights." Dean huffed out a laugh and dodged as Castiel threw a pillow at his head. But it did the trick, and Dean slid off the side of the bed, pulling the curtains open as his bare feet hit the wooden floor with a slap. Dean's whole body suddenly tensed, his head turned to the right as he narrowed his eyes at something Castiel could not see.

"Cas," Dean said slowly, his tone suddenly free from its previous playfulness. "Did you lock the door last night?" His voice was low but hard, flinty, and Castiel's heart dropped like a stone, as he scrambled to free himself from the covers.

Dean’s face was blank and all traces of warmth had dropped away as he stared, intent and focused. Castiel wanted to touch him, but he dare not. Dean was like a coiled spring and, naked though he was, the walls they had pulled down together in the dark had slammed back up and into place. He looked like a statue, like a warrior carved from marble, beautiful and deadly. Castiel tracked the direction of Dean’s stare to the window. There, pressed onto the glass and lead, was a single handprint formed from something dark, viscous, and red.

“Is it blood?” Castiel asked. The words sliced through the tension and Dean’s head twitched towards him as though he had forgotten Castiel was there.

“No, blood doesn’t stay red when it dries,” Dean replied. He went over and swiped a finger through it in a single determined motion, bisecting the image as though he wanted to cross it out, obscure it and take its power. He rubbed the red stuff between his finger tips and brought it towards his face to get the scent. “Paint, its just paint.”

“It’s the girl isn’t it? I thought she’d gone but...”

“No,” Dean said cutting Castiel off. “There’s been no spirits here. I would have noticed. Anyway, the Hall is completely warded against spirits. That’s why your little creature could only appear where the protections were weak; the windows and the fireplaces. Entrances and openings often exist in more than one dimension, which makes it easier for things to slip through. No, this was done by someone inside the Hall.”

Dean turned on Castiel with an anger that he clearly struggled to get under control, but it melted away as he raked his eyes over Castiel, his gaze lingering on the faint red marks on his neck and across his hips. He wrapped an arm around Castiel’s waist and heaved him in. He cupped Castiel’s jaw and angled his face up, so that Dean could cover his mouth, quick and concentrated.

“You didn’t lock the door did you?” Dean chided. “Didn’t Ellen tell you to always keep the doors locked at night?” He nipped at Castiel’s bottom lip, smiled saucily and then slapped him hard on the arse.

Castiel harrumphed in annoyance. “You opened the door last night, Dean. I have no idea if you locked it or not. I was a bit distracted having just watched my first ever exorcism.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean said sheepishly and kissed Castiel instead of apologising.

The handprint was smeary and ill shaped, but Castiel could see that it was too big to belong to a child. “You think it was Gwen?”

“Yeah... Gwen... must be...” Dean replied punctuating the words with little biting kisses as he traced the curve of Castiel’s neck. “I’ll see to it later,” he said, running his hands across Castiel’s stomach and pressing the heavy weight of his swelling erection against Castiel’s thigh. Despite their best intentions, Dean did not leave Castiel’s room for some time. 

The household stirred to life slowly, and activity spread outwards from the glow of the kitchen fires. It spilled out room by room, fire by fire, until each resident was up and the heart of the slumbering giant beat again. Dean’s absence, as the world awoke, left a soft ache between Castiel’s ribs, but it could not be avoided. Too many questions would be asked, if the Master was missing from his rooms. The earthen human scent that clung to Castiel’s bed told tales about what had passed during the night, but it smelt of Dean and therefore Castiel loved it. He gathered an armful of pillow and sheet and pressed his face to it, breathing deep.

This was good. What they had between them was good. It made no difference what anyone else thought, what society might say or what the preachers screamed from the pulpits, this was love, this was peace, this was home. He sent up a quiet prayer of thanks, for it was God who had led him here. God was love, and in Castiel’s love for Dean, he felt the divine at work more distinctly than he had ever felt it before. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Part 20**

**Tuesday 10 th September 1844**

Ben was agitated all morning. He proclaimed disappointment at the absence of the shooting party, but Castiel suspected it was really just the loss of Jessica and Mr Moore that he lamented. Sam was also due to follow the Moores back to London the next day, and his company would be greatly missed. Castiel suspected his own mood was an influencing factor in Ben’s restlessness – the child often showed an empathic sensibility beyond his years. He had surprised Castiel more than once that morning with his perceptive observations.

“You look different, Monsieur Milton,” Ben declared after a few minutes of falcon-eyed appraisal. “I think you are very happy today... non?” Until then, Castiel had thought the attempts to school his face into its usual inscrutable lines had been fairly successful. Ben laughed merrily as Castiel chided him gently to concentrate on his studies. “I know what it is!” He cried suddenly. “You look like someone who has been given un cadeau. Did Dean remember to bring you a present back de ses voyages?”

“Ben,” he warned, though he could not help but smile, “retourne au travail, ou il n'y aura pas de dessert pour toi ce soir.” Ben settled well enough after that, but Castiel caught him, more than once, watching him with side-long glances and that same evaluating squint to his eyes.

Calm settled over the school room and Castiel’s thoughts started to drift in the fragments of quiet as Ben worked. He thought of what Dean was doing and wondered when they would see each other again. They had parted as lovers in the first light of morning, but neither had made any grand declarations about what that meant for their everyday lives at Blackthorn. It was all complicated further by the need for secrecy, though now that he considered it, he was pretty sure that Sam, Jessica, Bobby, and Ellen already suspected. They could be trusted, but the other servants were more of a grey area. They might not maliciously spread gossip, but a wrong word in the wrong place could spell disaster.

“What are you thinking of, Monsieur?” Ben’s voice pulled Castiel from his momentary reverie.

“Nothing, Ben have you finished?”

“Not yet, my throat est très malade,” Ben complained, though he had been happy enough a few moments ago. Castiel went to him and put the back of his hand to Ben’s forehead. He was warm but not overly so.

“I’ll get you some water, maybe that will help,” Castiel said ruffling the boy’s dark hair affectionately before turning away to the jug of tepid water on a tray by the door – it was brought up to the schoolroom daily. Castiel had learned in his earliest days at Blackthorn, that Ben would go to great lengths to be allowed down to the kitchens and once there, it was difficult to extract him, therefore everything they needed for the day was brought upstairs ahead of time.

The water plashed softly as Castiel poured out a glass for Ben and then one for himself. Thinking about Dean either made Castiel’s mouth water or go dry, there was rarely a happy medium in the matter.

He turned back to look at Ben with his head bent over the table. He was tracing over the words with his finger as he read from a book about English Kings and Queens. Castiel sipped the stale tasting water while Ben gave up his task with an exasperated sigh, then turned in his chair to look out of the window. He waved to someone in the garden below.

“Ben,” Castiel said in the most serious school masterish voice he could muster. “It’s time to study now, we can go outside later.”

Ben turned back and grinned wide with excitement. "But, Monsieur Milton," he half shouted, then gestured wildly out of the window. Castiel picked up the other glass of water and carried it over to the work table, wondering what could have got the child so animated, so suddenly.

There was a sour taste in Castiel’s mouth. "What is it, Ben?" he asked with a frown.

"It is she... la petite fille... the girl... elle est là... it is her!" Ben cried.

Castiel felt an icy chill race over his skin, and the hairs on his forearms stood up in tiny peaks, the bumps visible where he had his shirt sleeves rolled up. He tried to move closer, to see for himself, but his legs got stuck in the floorboards. He looked down to find out why the room was lurching to the left, and watched fascinated at the way his hands were shaking, spilling water onto himself, onto his waistcoat and down his legs to make a puddle on the floor, where he thought his feet should be.

Pain stabbed like a knife through his torso, the sound of breaking glass filled his ears as he reached up to claw at his chest, expecting to find blood there. Though when he pulled his fingers away, there was nothing there. His throat closed up and his vision darkened as he groped around uselessly for something to hold on to. He fell to the floor with a loud thump. Little needles pricked at his skin from the shards of broken glass on the floor and water soaked into his shirt, cold and clammy.

“Monsieur, Monsieur,” Ben yelped in alarm and then there were small warm hands on Castiel’s face, and a voice that sounded far away calling out his name “Castiel, Castiel, Castiel.”

He was sure his eyes were open, but Castiel could see nothing but a nebulous grey fog. His heart beat erratically and his muscles started to contract and seize up with a pain he had never known before. He tried to speak, tried to tell Ben to go to Dean, to get Ellen, get Bobby, Becky, anyone. Castiel did not know if he managed to get out the instruction through his swelling throat, but he suddenly sensed he was alone. The pain was visceral, intense and unyielding and Castiel was nothing but grateful when he slipped from consciousness into the deep quiet of the black.

*******

“Cas.” Was the first thing he heard, but the voice was small and far away, and Castiel was comfortable in the enveloping darkness he did not want to leave. “Castiel, wake up,” the sound was closer this time, it was louder too and somehow familiar. “Please, Cas just open your eyes for me.” He tried his best to respond, but it was difficult, like swimming against the tide, currents swirling and catching at his legs to hold him back. The voice kept calling to Castiel, it was a lifeline flung out towards him as he drifted, until finally it snagged and started to pull him in.

Castiel’s eyelids fluttered open. “Hello, Dean,” he said to the man leaning over him, staring intensely into his face. It came out as no more than a whisper, and even those simple words scraped like rusted nails up the inside of his gullet on their way out. Dean seemed tired, his green eyes red-rimmed and dull, but he also looked relieved.

Castiel struggled and tried to push off the heavy sheets piled over him, so that he could sit up. Dean would not let him. Instead, he kept Castiel down with firm but gentle hands. Castiel did not have the strength to fight, so he lay there defeated and tried to gather together the shards of his memory into some semblance of understanding.

This was definitely not Castiel’s room. He would know his own bed, and this was not it. The corona of light that snuck in around the closed shutters showed that it was not yet night, despite the dimness of the room. Over Dean’s shoulder was a large stone fireplace. Castiel had seen it only once before, and he had paid little attention to it then, since the room had been on fire at the time. This was Dean’s room and he was in Dean’s bed. There was a flutter of pleasure at the thought, though Castiel still had no idea why he was there. It occurred to him that this was a new bed and that meant that he was the only person apart from Dean to have slept in it. The proprietary thought gave him a modicum of pleasure. Castiel’s lips twitched into a fraction of a smile as he looked sleepily up at Dean, who was busy running the pads of his fingers over Castiel’s forehead and brushing back the damp dark curls that clung there, sticky with sweat. 

It hit Castiel all at once, a rapid fire of memory and sensation: the pain in his chest, the roughened hammering of his heart, and the arms of insensibility that encircled and dragged him down. Castiel shuddered and Dean squeezed his fingers reassuringly.

“You gave us quite a scare, Cas.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel replied automatically. It made Dean laugh.

“Do you remember what happened?” 

“The water... there was something in the water?”

Dean nodded. “Bobby’s looking into how it happened, but we think it was poison from Bobby’s stores – it’s kept locked up down in the cellar but...” Dean shook his head and looked away, fixing his eyes on where their hands were fitted together on the blanket. There was a flash of guilt in his eyes. It was strange, but Castiel was too exhausted to worry about it. When Castiel looked back up, Dean was biting his lip. “I am so sorry, Cas. I don’t know how this happened.”

“Was it Gwen?” Castiel asked.

“No it wasn’t Gwen.” Dean’s voice went hard and so cold it made Castiel want to lean away from him. Dean’s hand tightened over Castiel’s until it started to hurt.

“Was it something to do with the little girl, the ghost,” Castiel asked instead, as he slipped his hand out from underneath Dean’s. He blinked rapidly to keep his eyes open, as a wave of weariness swept over him. “Ben said saw her through the window just before...” he trailed off unable to think of a way to explain it. “Oh my God, Ben! Is he alright?” Castiel went cold with fear.

“He’s fine, Cas, calm down, Becky’s looking after him right now,” Dean soothed.

“I nearly gave him the water first,” Castiel gasped out, “if he’d drunk it...”

“But he didn’t, so don’t worry about it.”

Castiel nodded with a shallow bob of his head and immediately regretted it when a headache made itself known by knocking against the inside of his skull. “So, the ghost then...?” he asked again.

“No. Ghosts can’t get into Blackthorn,” Dean declared, though he still looked puzzled. “You say he saw her just before this happened?” he said gesturing to Castiel. He nodded and regretted it again. “And why do you think a ghost would be trying to kill you, Cas?”

“Kill me?” Castiel exclaimed, or tried to, but something stuck in his throat and sent him into a coughing fit.

“Yeah, Cas, this poison is deadly,” Dean said seriously. “We have absolutely no idea how you survived.”

Castiel just stared for a minute. “It’s a miracle.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dean snorted. He brought his fingers up to touch Castiel’s face in a gentle caress that danced from Castiel’s forehead down to his lips, where Dean’s gaze remained, heated and exposed. “It’s probably just dumb luck that you didn’t swallow very much of it.”

“If it wasn’t the girl and it wasn’t Gwen, then who would do such a thing?”

“I told you, Bobby’s looking into it, don’t worry about it”

“Don’t worry about it? Someone tried to kill me and you think I shouldn’t be worried?”

“You get used to it after a while,” Dean said under his breath, then abruptly changed the subject. “The good news is that you can stay in here with me for now,” Dean smirked, then leaned forward to bring his mouth close to Castiel’s ear, as though he was telling secrets. “I insisted that you be put in here while you recover. It’s the most comfortable bed in the Hall and I can sleep in the next room,” he said as he gestured to the door in the corner that linked the two rooms together. It was the room that would normally be occupied by the lady of the house. “If necessary,” he added with a wink.

“You don’t mind?”

“Well it seemed like quite the proper thing to do. Don’t you know that Blackthorn’s tutor is well respected in the household, and even given preferential treatment by the family? ” Dean teased.

“Yes, well, in that case it does seem quite proper,” Castiel agreed. “Though I’m not sure anyone else would agree.”

“That’s where you’re wrong Cas. Overheard it myself when I was in the village a few days back. Do you want to know what the best part is?”

“Not really, but I’m sure you will tell me any way.”

“Apparently, the gossips are taking it as proof that I value education and intelligence after all, and that I’m not as vulgar as they previously thought.” He laughed and it was a joy to see. “Anyway, the point is, you can stay here until you’re completely recovered, so don’t go getting better too quickly huh?” Dean said. He was so close Castiel could feel Dean’s lips moving against his ear and despite the tremors under his skin he felt a delicious thrill spark up and plunge downwards. This time when Castiel shivered, it had nothing to do with the poison that swirled spitefully inside him.

“Dean, I’m starting to think you might have poisoned me yourself,” Castiel joked. He was sorry for it when Dean stood up suddenly, his good humour dropping away in an instant.

“I’ll go now,” Dean said solemnly. “I have business to attend to. Ellen is outside; she’ll come and sit with you for a while. She has some of her damn potions ready for you, good luck with that.”

Castiel nodded and followed Dean with his eyes as he left the room, only to be replaced by a sympathetic and fussing Ellen Harvelle. Castiel had never had a mother, he had never known what it was to be comforted and caressed and cared for by a mother, but he imagined it must be something akin this, as Ellen soothed and chattered and handed him various ill tasting concoctions to drink. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Part 21**

**Wednesday 25 th September 1844**

 

Warm fingers on the side of his face woke Castiel from a dreamless sleep. He blinked and looked up drowsily into Dean’s face; his features were blurred and half hidden in the dark, almost silhouetted against the thin slips of moonlight that crept in around the closed covers of the window. The ethereal, silvery light touched the points of Dean’s hair and made it seem to glow in an ill-defined halo around his head.

“Are you awake?” Dean asked. There was an edge of weariness or sadness in his voice and his touch was tentative, unsure, and different to how he had been in the weeks since Castiel had first woken after the poisoning.

“I wasn’t, but I am now,” Castiel replied, with a smile that he hoped Dean could see. “Come to bed.” He took Dean’s hand and shifted to the side of the large bed, dragging him along. The soft mattress dipped low as Dean slid between the sheets, without bothering to discard the loose shirt and trousers he was wearing.

Castiel’s body was stiff and sore, his lungs still rattled from the slow-healing effects of the poison, but he turned onto his side so he could sling one arm around Dean’s waist and draw him in close, so that they faced each other, eyes, nose and lips just an inch apart. They had spent many nights like this, lying close together in the dark, sometimes not even touching or speaking; the simple knowledge that the other was there was comfort enough. Dean was tense and Castiel felt it under his hands, sensed it in the heaviness of the air that rolled around him.

“Are you feeling better?” Dean asked.

“Yes a little. Ellen says she’ll let me get up tomorrow as long as I promise not to try and leave the room.”

“Good, good.” Dean said absently. His eyes were like little stars of reflected moonlight but there was something strange in his gaze as he searched Castiel’s face. Castiel reached up and dipped his fingertips into Dean’s open mouth and felt his tongue brush against them in a slow, warm, and wet undulation. A slow spiral of arousal curled through Castiel’s body at the contact and the memories it elicited, but he was in no state to indulge in any of the fantasies he had been conjuring during his days confined to the sickbed. Dean would not have allowed it in any case. He insisted on being careful with Castiel, fleeting touches and the occasional brush of lips were all Castiel had to sustain him for the moment.

“Is something wrong?” Castiel asked when it seemed that Dean was not going to speak again. There was no answer. Instead Dean moved in and slotted his mouth over Castiel’s, no force behind it just the drag of skin over skin and a few moments of shared breath, Castiel let his eyes flutter shut, enjoying the sensation before Dean broke off the kiss.

 “No. Nothing important anyway, I’m just...” his voice trailed off and he turned onto his back to look up to the ceiling. He put his arm across his face and covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow. Castiel wanted to reach out, hold him down and kiss whatever troubled him from his body, but he could not.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. Dean, I want you to be able to tell me.” It was the only thing Castiel could offer.

Dean huffed. “Really, Cas it’s nothing.” He let his arm fall to the side and he turned to look at Castiel again. “I just wish you were better. The Hall is dull without you.”

“I’m right here, Dean, I couldn’t go anywhere, even if I wanted to, Ellen wouldn’t let me,” he said lightly, trying to lift the strange mood that Dean had brought with him. Castiel jumped a little, as Dean pushed himself up to balance on one elbow.

“We should go away,” Dean said. He smiled for the first time that night and there was a new fervour in his voice. “As soon as you can travel we’ll leave, we can go somewhere, anywhere you want.”

Castiel smiled, willing to indulge Dean in this fantasy if it gave him comfort. “And where would you like to go Dean?”

“Somewhere no one knows us, where there’s no Hall and no monsters of any kind. Where we can just, be.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Italy,” Castiel shrugged. “Or Paris maybe, Ben would like that too, a trip there might do him some good.”

“Paris is overrun with Vampires,” Dean snapped back. “And I wasn’t talking about taking Ben.” He looked sad again and Castiel realised he was missing something here, something important. With an effort Castiel pushed himself up so he could look at Dean properly. It was difficult to see in the meagre light but there were shadows under Dean’s eyes.

“Dean, what’s going on, has something happened?”

“No,” Dean shook his head, agitated. “I just...” He leaned forward and grasped Castiel’s shoulder, the cautious approach dropped in the face of the distress that assailed him. “Castiel.” His voice was low and intense, and the sound of Castiel’s full name on Dean’s lips was odd. “Will you come away with me? Not for a tour or a visit, I mean for good, just you and me.” Something like hysteria crackled at the edges of Dean’s voice and his eyes moved, restless and searching.

Castiel’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Dean could not be serious. He would never abandon Blackthorn.

“Dean...” he started but Dean cut him off.

“We could go to Australia, or South America. Lots of people make good lives for themselves out there.” He sounded desperate. “Somewhere no one knows us, Cas. Imagine it. We could say that we’re family so no one would ask questions and we could be together properly, build a life together... Please, Cas,” he begged.

Castiel stared at him in disbelief. “Dean,” he said shaking his head. “You couldn’t leave the Hall, and what about Ben, what about Sam? You can’t be serious...”

Dean turned on him, going from desperation to anger in a fraction of a second. “Why couldn’t I leave the Hall. This was my parents home, I didn’t choose it. I’ve given up my life to this place, Cas, to the family business, to keeping other people safe.”

“But all of that, it’s a part of you, Dean,” Castiel replied. He pressed a hand between Dean’s ribs to feel the agitated heartbeat that thumped erratically against his fingers. “It’s who you are. You have a home, people who love you and need you, Sam, Ben, Bobby, me. I don’t know what’s happened to make you say these things, but whatever it is, I don’t think running away will help you. Everything you need is right here, I’m right here.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, running away wouldn’t help. I shouldn’t have woken you, Cas, you should sleep,” he said moving to get out of the bed.

“I’d sleep better with you here.” Castiel held out a hand and drew Dean back down. They were slotted together in the bed chest to back. Castiel’s arm was slung around Dean’s abdomen and pressed up under his linen shirt so that he could feel the regular rise and fall of his chest.

The whole conversation had been strange and Castiel was relieved when he felt Dean relax at last into sleep. He planted kisses on the back of Dean’s neck as he held on to him in the dark, and hoped it would at least sooth Dean’s dreams. And perhaps it did, because Dean never mentioned the strange conversation again and sometimes Castiel wondered if he had dreamt the whole thing up.


	22. Chapter 22

  **Part 22**

**Monday 4 th November 1844**

 

It was late in the afternoon on a nondescript autumn day when Castiel’s world changed again. Life had returned to an approximation of normality, though Castiel tired easily and only took Ben for lessons in the morning, much to Ben’s delight. The greater part of the child’s care was now split between Ellen and Becky. The maid had come into her own with the added responsibility, it was pleasing to see.

As for sleeping arrangements, Dean had refused to let Castiel move back into his own room and insisted, on the few occasions when anyone dared to ask, that “Cas will not leave until he’s better.” Ellen had raised her eyebrows and Becky just watched them with wide eyes and dreamy smiles when she thought they were not looking. It was a small price to pay to reap the many benefits of spending his nights with Dean, shut away from the rest of the world behind locked doors.

Nothing had happened that day to mark it as different or significant, though Castiel had been bothered by an odd restlessness in his body, like a faint buzz under his skin, but he had chalked it up to another step on his long road to recovery. The only warning that came was the distant thump of horse shoes on the damp driveway and the rattle of a harness as the rider dismounted.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Castiel asked. He had been reading by the fire, a blanket draped across his shoulders, a protection from the chill that snuck in around the windows. Dean looked up from the pile of documents he had been grumbling over for the last hour, official estate business that Sam had forwarded on from his law firm in London.

Dean frowned. “Not that I know of,” he glanced at the clock on the mantle, “and it’s late for visitors.” 

There was a loud clang, as who-ever-it-was that had decided that late afternoon on a drizzly day in November was a good time to call, yanked on the cord of the door bell.

“Maybe it’s a messenger?” Castiel suggested. Dean was about to say something in reply, as a sharp voice reached them from the entrance hall.

“Bring me to your Master.” The voice was loud and there was a slight accent to it that Castiel could not place. “I will not wait, now, girl,” the unknown man demanded.

“Sounds like it might be import...” Castiel froze as he caught sight of Dean. His mouth had fallen open and his eyes were wide in shock. “Dean? What is it?” They were sitting close by each other, as usual, so it was easy for Castiel to cover Dean’s hand with his own and draw his attention. Dean looked at him and Castiel saw terror in his face. It was an expression he had never expected to see Dean wear and it shot like a bullet straight to Castiel’s core. “Dean?” he asked again, alarmed.

They heard the sound of quick footsteps headed towards the drawing room. Castiel startled and flinched away as Dean jumped to his feet in a flurry of papers and letters that fell to the floor and scattered like leaves. He half fell over the intervening furniture in his desperation to reach the door. Castiel stood up as well. Dean’s panic had made him worried that something dangerous had come into the Hall. He could not have known that the danger had been with them all along.

Before Dean made it that far, the door was flung wide open. A man-sized shape filled the space beyond.

“Not here,” Dean said imperiously. It looked as if Dean was trying to block Castiel’s view of the stranger as he placed his broad body between them, or perhaps it was the other way around. Either way, the attempt was unsuccessful.

“I will speak to you wherever it pleases me, Mr Winchester,” spat the visitor in return. He was short and slim, young or at least younger than Castiel, with warm dark skin and deep brown eyes. His clothes were finely tailored and he cut an air of confidence and superiority with a straight backed posture and his head held high. Dean scowled and the young man returned the look with a sneer. Tension snapped in the air between the two men and Castiel felt an uncomfortable shock and twist of cool jealousy. There was history here; some story that hung in the air, ripe and ready to be snatched and ripped open. Castiel was not sure he wanted to know it.

Dean chanced a glance over his shoulder to Castiel. It was a fraction of a second, and the last crumbs of peace before Castiel’s world cracked and shattered into splinters around him. He shuddered at Dean’s look of hopelessness and inevitable loss. It was replaced in an instant by hard edged detachment, as Dean turned back to the black haired man.

“Get out of my house,” Dean threatened.

The man snorted. “Not until I get what I came for.”

“Move right now, or I will throw you out myself.” Dean stepped closer, using his size to try and intimidate, but the other man just smirked arrogantly.

“Go ahead and try it. You don’t scare me, Winchester, look at you, you’re terrified.” He reached out and pushed Dean away by the shoulder. It was a challenge. A proprietary anger flared inside Castiel at the contact. It was a bright new sensation. He was glued to the spot, enthralled by the disaster that was unfolding right in front of him. The man glanced at Castiel and laughed. “Are you ashamed, Winchester? I suppose you don’t want your friends to know what sort of a sorry excuse for a man you really are. ”

“I will leave if Mr Winchester wants me too,” Castiel said. He looked at Dean, who seemed transformed as he glowered at the stranger, burnished by the low winter sun into something dangerous and magnificent, like a caged tiger about to break his bonds. “Dean?” Castiel asked again, his concern undisguised.

The man laughed viciously. “I don’t know who you are, Sir, but I’ll give you some advice. You should choose your friends more carefully.” He looked back at Dean, then continued. “Does he know? Does anyone in this godforsaken backwater know?” He demanded. “Or do you treat all your friends with the same contempt you show for your wife?”

Castiel laughed, and it vibrated around him in the strained atmosphere long after the sound had died away. “Mr Winchester isn’t married,” he said calmly. One look from Dean was all it took. One glance at Dean’s face and Castiel’s life crumbled into to dust around him. Castiel felt as if he died in that moment. It happened silently and went unnoticed by anyone but Dean and himself.

“Well, I’m happy to be the bearer of such glad tidings,” the man said sarcastically. “Mr Winchester is married, and has been married these past ten years to my sister. I witnessed the happy union myself. Do you question the veracity of the claim, Sir? Because I can prove it, if I must.”

Dean’s jaw clenched and he stared hard at Castiel. “Why are you here, Robinson? Why now?” Dean demanded to know.

“I’ve been in England a while getting our affairs in order, and I was almost ready to go back home when I heard a rumour about one Mr Dean Winchester of Blackthorn Hall and how he had been making overtures of marriage to some country girl,” he said in a mocking voice. No doubt Dean’s ill-advised behaviour towards Maria Fairdale in the summer was the cause of the gossip. “I decided to set out at once,” he continued, “to make the truth known and to save my sister and the young lady in question the distress of knowing they had attached themselves to a deceiver and sinner. So there you have it. Now, where is my sister?” he demanded and struck the door frame with the end of the bone handled cane he was carrying. “If you cannot produce her, I will have you taken up as a murderer!”

“You want to see my wife?” Dean shouted. He was still looking directly at Castiel. “Come on then, and I’ll show you what sort of a wife I have.”

“Some sense at last,” said Mr Robinson, oblivious to the fact that it was not him Dean was addressing. Dean went over to Castiel and wrapped a hand around his wrist, tightening his grip until it burned and his nails dug into Castiel’s skin.

“You need to see this.” Dean said in a dull dead tone. Dean turned and towed Castiel along as he made his way out into the Hall.

Castiel started to argue. “I don’t think...”

Dean rounded on him, almost spitting the words into Castiel’s face. “I am your employer and you will damn well do as I say.”

“You should find yourself a better Master,” quipped Mr Robinson who trailed behind them.

Ellen was hard on their heels as she chased after them – Becky it seems had known trouble when she saw it and had gone straight to the housekeeper after she answered the door.

Stone-faced and grim, they ascended the twisting flights of stairs on their way to the tower. Up and up they went, into the last medieval part of the building. Dean banged on the arched door at the top of the spiral stairs and it rattled and moved on its hinges as his fist fell. This was further into the tower than Castiel had ever been before, but the cloying sweet cinnamon scent that filled the air was familiar.

“Gwen, open up. Mrs Winchester’s brother is here to see her.” Bang, bang, bang. He thumped on the door again, impatiently, as though there was any chance she would not have heard him the first time, with the way the sound reverberated around within the confines of the tower. The door opened with a creak and Gwen’s stern face and cloth covered head appeared in the gap.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Sir. She’s a little agitated at the moment, as you well know.” She looked at Castiel then past him to the other people waiting on the stairs. Her eyebrows lifted as she caught sight of Dean’s fingers circled around Castiel’s wrist. “Well, that explains a lot,” she said but did not elaborate.

“Just let us in, Gwen.” Dean raised his voice so that Mr Robinson could hear.

She harrumphed but acceded. “Right you are, Sir, on your own head be it.”

“Gwen came to us all the way from London,” Dean said, his voice tight and hard. “Sam sought her out specifically because she has a lot of experience in these matters. Gwen worked at Bethlehem Hospital and she wasn’t tempted away easily. So you see, Robinson, we spare no expense to care for the little sister that you were so desperate to be rid of... I mean that you were so keen for me to marry – why was that again, Robinson?” Dean asked sarcastically. There was no response.

Gwen ushered them to another room, with heavy locks on the outside of the door, red-rusted bolts that grated horribly as she dragged each of them open. She waved them inside as she held the door back. As Castiel passed her he felt the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder.

“Be careful in there, Castiel. She’s taken against you something rotten of late, and I think we can both guess why.” She nodded and patted him on the arm as he went inside. He was surprised by the kindness and her gentle manner, so contrary to Gwen’s severe appearance and the image of her he had built up in his head.

The room was bare, one small window, a shallow fireplace filled with glowing coals, two chairs and a crooked little table that had been repaired many times over. Pushed against the wall under the window, was a small bed, and on it a figure, curled up, childlike. Castiel could not take his eyes from her. Her thin arms were wrapped around her tucked up knees, pulling them in to her chest in an embrace. Her head was down, her face obscured by long locks of wavy hair, black like her brother’s. She rocked back and forth in a steady rhythm and she hummed a sound that was not quite a melody, though it thrummed through the air deep and low and rich as treacle.

“Mr Milton,” Dean said in a flat, emotionless voice. “Let me introduce you to my wife, Mrs Cassandra Winchester.” He released Castiel and walked over to the woman. She began to moan as he stepped closer, strange snipped off fragments of speech that resolved into words as she uncurled and looked up. “Cassie you have visitors,” Dean said gently as he crouched down.

She was beautiful. There was no other word for it. She had huge brown eyes set in a delicate heart-shaped face. Though her hair hung loose, the tresses were thick and glossy, and her warm skin was smooth and unblemished. Castiel thought he should hate her, but he could not. He felt nothing but pity for the madness that blazed behind her eyes. Her beauty all but destroyed by the way her limbs twitched and twisted as she rocked and swayed and shook her head from side to side.

There was a sudden spark of recognition as her eyes lighted on Dean. “My love,” she whispered. “Husband, I have missed you. I wanted you terribly, but you’ve been gone so long and my bed has been cold.”

“Cassie, your brother is here to see you,” Dean said.

She just blinked at him uncomprehending, then tried to reach for his hands. “Don’t you love me anymore, am I not a good wife?” she muttered. Dean dodged her easily and moved away. All at once, she leaped from the bed and dashed towards Dean. He flinched away from her but not quickly enough to avoid her arms as she wrapped herself around him, hitching up her skirts in a lewd display. There was cold revulsion in Dean’s face as he and Gwen together managed to detach her and settle her back onto the bed. She gnashed her teeth and clawed at them and laughed a high pitched giggle that Castiel recognised from all the nights he had listened to it. She had left a trail of red, scratched on the side of Dean’s neck. 

“Well, Robinson? Don’t you have anything to say to your sister?” Dean asked as he turned to her brother. Castiel had almost forgotten the other man was in the room.

“Good God, Winchester, I had not thought to find her as bad as this,” he said, and it was clear that he meant it. The former pomposity of his tone was completely gone. “She seemed better before...”

“Before you passed her off onto me?”

“Don’t make it sound like we tricked you; we thought she was better.”

Dean laughed bitterly, “You did trick me, or at least your parents did. Perhaps you weren’t in on the joke.”

Mr Robinson bristled then and stood up a fraction straighter. “Don’t speak of my parents like that, Sir, you know that they are both lately dead,”

“Well that is generally what happens.” Dean replied enigmatically. “And it couldn’t have happened to nicer people if you ask me.”

“Winchester,” Mr Robinson said in warning. He stepped closer.

“Brother? Brother is that you?” Cassandra said, as she noticed him for the first time. “Have you come to take me home? I’d like to go home now. I’d like to see the sun and the flowers in the garden.” She sounded so plaintive that Castiel hurt for her. The sympathy of feeling did not last long.

Her gaze landed on Castiel and she hissed. Her face twisted up and she screamed and rushed at him before Gwen could catch her, with her hands outstretched and her fingers curled into claws as if she intended to tear his eyes out. Dean caught her round her waist but she just stared at Castiel over Dean’s shoulder with fury painted across her face.

“You,” She screamed at him. “Why did you come here? I thought God had sent you to save me. I thought he’d answered my prayers at last.” She started to weep hysterically and struggled in Dean’s hold. Thick tears rolled down her face and streams of snot ran from her nose as she sobbed and gasped in helpless fury. Gwen made soothing noises and stroked Cassandra’s hair in an attempt to calm her.

She curled up into a tight ball and started muttering nonsense. “The light... it’s so bright... I thought you had come for me, come to take me home... But you are just another devil... sent to trick me... to steal my love and torture me... and the other one, she whispers to me... tells me to stay away... tells me that I should follow her... but I don’t want to go into the dark, and I know she’s bad, because you are bad... and she is like you... naughty, disobedient, evil...oh God, oh God, oh God...” she sobbed out each word then started to snap her teeth at Gwen, or just at the air, who could tell. Before long, her words dissolved into incomprehensible mumbles, punctuated by the occasional snarl. She was completely lost.

“Well, have you seen enough?” Dean said heavily. It took a while for Castiel to realise that Dean was talking to him. Castiel met Dean’s eyes and Dean cringed at the blank blue gaze. The mask Castiel had worn for most of his life, shaped and fixed there in childhood, had fallen back into place. It was his only defence.

 “Yes, Dean. I have seen enough, thank you.” Castiel bowed a polite and utterly incongruous bow to the occupants of the room, turned on his heels and fled.

***

He did not need much, just his clothes, his wages and a couple of keepsakes – the cross around his neck and a drawing that Ben had given him last Christmas. Castiel picked up and considered the pocket watch Dean had given to him a few weeks ago, on the day Ellen had relented and let Castiel leave his sick bed. It was a plain silver William Fowler piece that suited Castiel’s simple tastes, yet it was still the finest thing he had ever owned. He left it on the desk up in his old room to gather dust or be disposed of, as Dean saw fit. Everything he wanted to take was put into the small beaten up case he had arrived at Blackthorn with. It was light, and Castiel could carry it easily even though he was not completely recovered from the ill effects of the poison. Ellen could pack up and send on anything left behind when he had settled somewhere else. Castiel could not stay where Dean was, and he needed to go now, while his senses and emotions were dulled by the shock of revelation, before he was overwhelmed by grief or made insensate by anger.

“Dean is married,” he said to himself as he moved about the familiar space like an automaton. It did not seem real. It was like a nightmare, a terrible dream that he could not wake up from, or burn away with the heat they made between them when he turned towards Dean’s waiting arms. Everything that had passed between them had been tainted by the lie. The marriage was no doubt tragic, but it was the lie of it that cut Castiel open and eviscerated him, leaving him hollow inside.

Dean would come to him. Castiel did not know if he would try to talk him out of leaving, or push him out the front door now that he knew the secret, but he would come – so Castiel made it easy and decided to wait in the drawing room, where the scattered papers from earlier still lay discarded on the floor. Castiel had his coat on and his case ready at his feet. His intention could not be made clearer.

When Dean arrived, it was not with the defensive bluster of false bravado and sarcasm, but with a calm resignation, like a man walking towards the gallows, already defeated and already only half alive. Castiel did not know if he was disappointed or relieved, but it was definitely unexpected. But then so much about Dean always had been. Dean did not sit down and face Castiel, instead he leaned his forearm against the window pane and gazed out across the evening-dulled grounds and the grey clouds that tumbled and rolled in the bleak overcast sky.

 “I’m sorry you had to find out like this...”

Castiel cut him off. “I think what you really mean is that you’re sorry I had to find out.”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” Dean said with a small hopeless shrug.

“Dean, if you had told me how things really were...”

Dean made a small noise of derision. “Then you’d have left long before now. Or worse, you’d have stayed and been completely out of reach forever.” He ran his finger over the inside of the window, tracing over the bumps of tiny imperfections in the glass. Condensation formed around the edges of each pane and he rubbed the moisture between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. “I was very young when I met Cassie and very stupid...”

“You don’t need to explain it to me, Dean,” Castiel interrupted, “you know it’s not just about that. I don’t need to know about your wife, in fact I don’t want to know. What matters is that you have one, and that you lied to me about it.” His voice was steady, almost monotone, and had anyone else been listening in, they might have thought him completely disinterested.

“But I want you to know, Cas. I want you to understand, or you might think I’m worse than I really am,” Dean said. He still did not turn around.

“Alright, Dean,” Castiel said with a sigh. “Go ahead. You know it can’t make any difference now.”

He watched Dean’s shoulders lift as he tensed up. “As I said, I was very young and very stupid when I met Cassie. I was in the Indies, alone, when her family arrived on a nearby estate and for a while I only saw her from a distance, but she was so beautiful it was almost mesmerising, and on the few occasions when I got to talk to her she was strange but charming. I suppose I was infatuated, but back then I thought it was love.” He shook his head at the memory. “Her family encouraged me, even though we were really far too young. That should have been enough to make me realise there was something wrong and to wonder why they wanted us to marry while my father was away, because seen in a prudential light, it was a pretty good match on both sides. But I suppose I just didn’t want to see what was wrong because I didn’t want to wait. It was stupid, really stupid, and my father was furious when he came back. But by then it was too late. We hadn’t been married a fortnight when she started to change. For a few days it was just little things, strange comments and fits of anger and melancholy. A week later, I woke up and she had a knife pressed to my throat – it was my own knife too.” He huffed out a mean joyless laugh. “I did tell you I was a fucking idiot, Cas.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Castiel asked, taking a breath.

Dean rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t know exactly, no one does. I’ve had her looked at by the best doctors but you’ve seen for yourself that she’s mad, always has been.”

“Then why did you marry her? She’s beautiful but...”

“She wasn’t like this back then,” Dean paused for a moment, then continued with the story. “At first they, the Robinsons, they only let me see her from a distance. They didn’t let me speak to her for a long time. They just dressed her up and paraded her in front of me like some kind of a doll, until I was almost crazy myself. When we finally talked, she was a bit unusual but she just seemed witty and clever and very seductive – she didn’t talk like other girls I’d known. It was as if she knew how to say all the things I wanted to hear. I was only just turned eighteen at the time.”

“I still don’t understand how they tricked you if she was so unwell?”

“God, I was stupid,” Dean said, shaking his head again. “My father worked it out straight away of course, God, he was so angry about it I thought he was going to kill me. He couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen the signs or done any of the checks he taught us growing up. It’s no excuse, but I really thought I loved her at the time.”

“But you didn’t?” Castiel asked.

“No. It wasn’t real. Not like the way my father loved my mother, or how Sam loves Jessica, or how I...” Dean’s voice cracked as his calm slipped a little too far to the side. The words went unspoken, but they hung heavy in the air between them anyway and Castiel had to close his eyes as the tension increased.

“Was it a spell or something like that?” Castiel asked, trying to sort through the things that Dean had told him about the creatures he hunted, find an explanation that worked.

Dean turned around and looked at Castiel. “It was a demon,” he said. “We got the truth out of the Robinsons eventually. I guess they figured it was too late for me to give her back, so why not be honest about it. Cassie had always been ill and they wanted to get rid of her, so when a demon came to them and offered them a deal.”

“Like the one Meg offered to me?”

Dean nodded. “She was a burden to them, and the demon offered them a solution. That’s the thing with demon deals, as soon as the bargain is made the magic works, and it made her well, made her as she would have been without her affliction, and it lasted just long enough for the Robinsons to make sure I’d take her.”

The cogs turned in Castiel’s brain until they fell into an uncomfortable pattern. “Did she even want to marry you?” he felt sick at the implications. 

“I don’t know for sure, but I think so,” Dean answered. “She was well when we married and even now there are days when she is more lucid and you can almost see what she was like back then. She did tell me once that she was happy she married me and that I took better care of her than her family had, so I hope... I hope it isn’t too bad for her. ” He looked distraught, as well he might.

“What did your father do?” Castiel asked after a pause.

“Apart from scream at me... nothing. The Robinsons made a deal. They got what they deserved when the demon came back for its payment, and long may they burn in Hell for it. I made sure she was looked after in the Indies, but it was difficult, so in the end I brought her here and took on Gwen to care for her. You know the rest.”

“She’s the one that’s been coming into my room isn’t she? She set fire to your room?” Castiel asked.

“Yes,” Dean replied, “she decided I wasn’t paying her enough attention. You’ll be pleased to know she hates you as well.” 

“Me? Dean, was it Cassie that poisoned me?” It was the obvious conclusion.

“Yes,” he said again. “She sees you as a rival. I’m going to have her moved soon, put her and Gwen in a small house somewhere away from the Hall. I just need to find something suitable.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I know I should’ve told you all of this, but it makes no difference. It’s not a real marriage, how could it be? It means nothing to me, Cas.” He took a breath. “Won’t you at least think about staying?” 

Castiel closed his eyes for a few moments and tried to get what was left of his thoughts in some semblance of order. “It’s a very sad story, Dean. I can see you were tricked and taken advantage of, both of you were. But it doesn’t change the facts. You lied to me. When you told me about hunting, you told me I knew everything about you and I believed it. I thought I knew you, but I never did. You are married, and however unfortunate it has turned out, you are joined to this woman not only by law, but by God. As far as I can tell, you and Cassie were yourselves when you took your vows. It might mean nothing to you, Dean but it means something to me. I think you knew that, and that’s why you didn’t tell me. You kept the truth from me because you wanted to get your own way, just like the Robinsons kept the truth about Cassie’s illness from you to get their own way.”

“It’s nowhere near the same,” Dean said flatly.

“Maybe, maybe not, but I can’t just ignore it or forget about it and the facts remain the same. You are married. It is a sin for anyone to interfere, and you have involved me in your marriage without my knowledge and certainly without my consent.” Castiel tried to explain.

“How is that a marriage?” Dean raised his voice, then backed down and tried to reason with Castiel instead. “I’ll send them away like I said, I won’t wait. I’ll do it now, tonight... this doesn’t have to change things between us.”

“No,” Castiel said.

Dean laughed, he knew the argument was already lost and at last his defensiveness came out. “Why?” he spat, “Why does it even matter, Cas? You’re not a girl, and I can’t marry you, so what the hell difference does it make? Everything was fine. Why can’t we carry on like that? I want you and I know you want me.” There was a dark gleam in his eyes as he went in with the knife. “And as for your God disapproving... isn’t fucking another man already enough of a sin for you? Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. We’re both already damned either way. So what does it matter that I’m married; I’m still me and it doesn’t change anything.”

“Dean.” Castiel was shocked that he did not seem to be able to see what he had done. “It changes everything. You lied to me. This,” he said waving a hand vaguely between the two of them. “It wasn’t what I thought it was... you aren’t who I thought you were. I didn’t think you could do something like this. You’re like a stranger to me now, and I can’t trust anything you say.” Castiel felt as though he was looking at the world through a dirty window. Everything was warped and tainted and it made him dizzy.

Dean sat down heavily on the couch across the room from Castiel, all the fight gone out of him. “You said you wouldn’t leave, Cas, do you remember that? You made a promise too.”

“Well then,” Castiel replied coldly, “I guess that makes us both liars.”

The world seemed unreal, utterly changed in the passage of just a few minutes. Castiel left Dean in the drawing room. He had his head in his hands but he was dry eyed and cold, like the adders that slithered away unnoticed through the drab flowerless heather. Castiel walked away from Blackthorn Hall as the sky darkened and the moon rose in the sky, her pale face barely visible through the clouds, and he found he was no longer entirely sure who exactly was betraying who. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Part 23**

**Monday 4 th November 1844**

Blackthorn’s iron gate swung shut behind Castiel with a clunk. It was a small mundane sound, ill fitted to the finality of the action. Castiel had no plan and no destination in mind. He just wanted to be gone, away from Dean, away from the Hall, and away from the white hot pain of being cut open and hollowed out on the edge of a lie. He looked to the south, but the road to Crossthorpe was clogged with memories and there was no way through. Instead, Castiel looked to the north and took the road into unknown territory.  A few miles on, there was a stile and a track that led away from the main road. It proved too much of a temptation to ignore. The path was indistinct and hard to follow in the gloaming, but Castiel did not really care where it took him as long as it moved him away from the place he did not want to be.

Dean’s face in those last moments was burned into Castiel’s memory, his resignation a thin veneer pasted imperfectly on top of misery and guilt. Leaving was the only option, of that Castiel was certain. For him, it was a form of protection, but for Dean it would only serve as punishment. Perhaps Dean deserved it? His actions had proved him false and willing to risk the happiness of others in order to gain it for himself. But now Castiel would be another thing lost to Dean and it would hurt him, like the re-opening of an old wound. It made Castiel want to turn around and run back, but he did not. He pushed down the desire, squashed the need, and walked on. The repetitive, rhythmic movement forward was hypnotic, almost effortless, and it soothed his mind and calmed his spirit, until Castiel thought nothing, and felt nothing but the contract and release of his muscles as he went.

Crows on the wing cawed out, black shapes barely visible in the darkened lapis sky as they mourned the dying moments of the sun. The world turned to black, and Castiel walked on. He stumbled over rocks and slipped in the mud of recent rainfall. Long grasses shed water onto his clothes and shoes until they were soaked through and water rubbed cold between his toes. Castiel did not need the moon to show its face. He had long since strayed from any recognised path, but he was glad of the mean light in an abstract way. It made the land ethereal; the luminescence picked out rocky outcrops and they looked like immense silver sentries lining the way to... Castiel did not care where. He just walked on.

The world turned; day came and went; and Castiel trekked over heath and crag without pause. There was no road, no farmstead, nothing but the ground and the rocks beneath his feet, and the big sky overhead. He was an empty vessel, without thought or motivation of his own. The only thing he could do, was to keep moving.

It might have been the evening of the second day when the girl arrived. Afterwards Castiel could never be sure exactly when she had appeared. Exhausted in mind, body and spirit, Castiel had no idea if she was real or just a will-o-the-wisp, but he was not afraid of her this time. A man who has nothing, has nothing to fear and Castiel was empty, with a wasteland where a heart once beat, already mostly dead. The girl was at least familiar among the endless green, grey and brown of the strange land he wandered in. She waited in the distance, her white dress and the vivid red of her hair picked out sharply against the glowering sky. He followed without hesitation, the only clear thing in a head emptied out. She never seemed to move, but she was always just out of reach, too distant to call to, a steady presence on the horizon, visible even in the dark when the temperature dropped and the rain fell, cold as ice.

The mud dragged at Castiel’s feet. Heather and gorse reached up to tangle around his ankles and sent him tumbling to the ground where hands and knees grazed against stone, drawing blood from the lacerations. He tried to go on, to follow after the girl on the crest of the hill, but eventually his body could take no more. As the day dawned with a thick morning mist, Castiel slumped, exhausted and near senseless, against a stone slab that looked out into a white featureless expanse.

With movement halted, Castiel’s mind returned in a delirious jumble, and he wondered if he had died and if this blank place was some kind of afterlife. Then he saw her again. She came closer; her bare feet untouched by the peaty mud that she walked across to reach him. Castiel watched her warily in the half-light and silence of the coming day – wherever he was, there were no birds here to sing in the dawn. Castiel had been stripped back, devolved and reduced down to the very last glimmer of his humanity, before his soul blinked out of existence, and from that vantage point, everything looked different, and he knew that the girl held a secret in her fragile hands, one he needed to know.

“Who are you?” he asked. His voice came out reedy and thin, hardly able to push through the fog thickened air. “Please tell me who you are?” She was near, but she turned away to gaze into the white beyond, where hazy shapes drifted, like the ghosts of ragged souls that had become trapped in the space between worlds.

He could see her clearly, and it called to mind the first time she had visited him, to rattle at his window. Her eyes were a wide pale blue and her hair deep red against her bloodless white skin. She looked like a tiny, terrible porcelain doll, but one that had been smashed and glued back together, because this close, he could see the stain of damage in the bruises that bloomed on her arms and decorated her neck like a perverse necklace. Castiel had never noticed them before, never thought to stay still and look at her for long enough to read the message in the finger sized marks.

“Please tell me,” Castiel repeated but she came no closer. For a moment, her lips twitched as she looked into the distance, like the memory of a smile long out of use. Castiel was frozen by it. The image tugged at him strangely, a flutter in the space he had thought was empty between his ribs. He wanted to go to her, put his coat around her shoulders and hold her until her skin turned pink and warm. But when he tried to stand he could not. His legs would not work.

Castiel looked down at himself and for the first time he noticed how the dirt and the damp clung to his clothes. He was missing a shoe and could not work out how it had happened, or why he no longer had his case with him when he looked around for it. Castiel lifted his hands to his face and they were shaking uncontrollably, but he could barely feel them, they were like lumps of ice.

There was a creaking noise in the distance, in the direction that the girl was staring, but Castiel’s vision was failing and he could not see that far. A large dark shape loomed up out of the cloud and Castiel looked up bleary-eyed and blinked in surprise at finding a big flushed face looking back at him. The man looked down at him with a sympathetic smile, a smile fringed with a mighty grey moustache.

“My goodness, whatever can this be?” said the man. His voice was oddly familiar.

Then a lady spoke from some distance away, hidden back in the mist. “Royston, be careful!” she shouted.

“Have no fear, my dear, all will be well,” the man replied. The man put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and shook him gently. All Castiel could do in response was slump forward and groan as the last ounce of strength left him. The man placed his palm under Castiel’s chin and raised his head.

The female voice spoke again. “Is he dead?” she asked, with a little high pitched cry, “Oh Royston, he’s not dead is he? Do you think it was robbers? Do you think they might still be here? Oh I knew we shouldn’t have come this way. Strange things always happen around here you know. My sister’s brother-in-law’s aunt always said... Royston? Royston are you even listening to me?”

Castiel felt the soft weave of a handkerchief on his skin, as the man dabbed at his face.

“It can’t be!” The man exclaimed. Castiel felt him push aside the hair that rain water had plastered across his forehead. “It is. I don’t believe it! It's Mr Milton isn’t it?” Castiel was shaken by the shoulder again, more roughly this time, and the man raised his voice. “What the devil has happened to you, Mr Milton? Was Mrs Crabtree right, was it robbers?” Mr Crabtree, for it was indeed he, moved away for a moment, calling for the driver.

With help, Mr Crabtree manoeuvred Castiel’s unresisting form into the carriage, where Mrs Crabtree whimpered and gasped at the sight of him, then edged away so that his miry state could not spoil her gown. Castiel was manhandled into a sitting position, though his muscles protested and he only stayed upright because Mr Crabtree propped him against the side of the carriage then sat on the other side to box him in and restrained him with an arm when Castiel threatened to slip off the seat completely. Castiel felt something metal at his lips and Mr Crabtree urged him to take a drink. With whatever part of his brain was left functioning, Castiel swallowed obediently. It was whiskey, and it burned down his gullet and melted the icicles that had formed there. It was not an unwelcome sensation.

For a fraction of a second, Castiel’s eyes flickered open and outside the half-light window was a small pale figure. She looked hopeful and there was, at last, a smile on her face. Castiel’s vision darkened; black rushed from the edges inwards, to cover everything.  He tried to form a word, but his throat constricted; it was just a simple sequence of letters and sounds that he abruptly remembered, though he did not know why.

“Anna,” Castiel whispered, as unconsciousness took him.


	24. Chapter 24

**Part 24**

_Tuesday 16 th September 1816_

_“Castiel Milton!”_

_With_ _his stubby fingers laced together and pulled in tight to his chest, Castiel bent his head and prayed. His hands trembled, and each tremor kept time with the rapid pace of his heart, as his name was called again. He clasped his hands tighter around the smooth sides of his silver cross. It hung on a twisted piece of twine that was too long and ended half way down his chest._

_“Castiel!” The shout was hard edged, all anger and ill contained violence. “I will find you, you devil child.”_

_Uncle Reed was getting closer. Castiel tried to shrink, to become small and insignificant so that he could pass unnoticed. He had tried this before and it had never worked, but perhaps today it would, perhaps today his prayers would be answered. Castiel was already small for his age. His uncle often complained about it when there were visitors in the house, forcing him to stand like an exhibit in a carnival side show, to have his pale skin and thin frame commented on and discussed at length._

_“What a puny and ill-favoured child,” they would say in a dozen different voices and a dozen different ways. “Mr Reed, you are a true Christian to take on such a creature, even if he is your nephew.”_

_“He’s barely blood really, my half-sister’s boy you know?” Mr Reed liked to make it clear at every opportunity that his duty of care to Castiel was tenuous at best._

_At which, they would throw their hands up in the air, and say something like, “If such a pitiful creature were left to me, I should send him to the orphanage at once. He’ll only cause trouble and grow up spoilt if you let him have the run of the house. You’re too generous and I doubt he has either the sense or feeling to appreciate your efforts.”_

_There was one memorable time when the vicar came to tea, and Mr Reed, with only the best possible motives had told the story of the strange pictures Castiel had drawn on the walls of his room. Castiel had no idea where they came from and had been horrified to find them scrawled across the paintwork one morning._

_“It’s the devil in him,” the vicar had declared. “Sickly children are easily taken by wickedness and the devil will use them for ill purposes. Beware, Mr Reed, you harbour evil in your home.”_

_“But what is to be done?” Uncle Reed exclaimed. “I have tried my best with the boy but he vexes me at every turn.”_

_The vicar turned his gaze on Castiel, his beady eyes like dots of onyx embedded in his wrinkly skin. “You need to beat the devil out of him,” he said. His top lip pulled up to reveal a row of crooked yellow and black teeth and he wrinkled his nose as though Castiel smelled bad._

_Poor, put upon Uncle Reed, took the vicar's advice to heart and applied it liberally and as often as he could. Some days there was no cause of offence other than Castiel’s existence, so he learned to stay out of the way. Some days it was when Castiel spoke, so he learned not to speak unless spoken to. Some days it was for not praying earnestly enough and some days for praying too fervently, so Castiel learned how to read the moods of the adults around him and to respond in the most appropriate way. It did not always work._

_How much worse then was the punishment for a crime committed?_

_Castiel thought he would find out the day he watched in horror, as a vase fell from the table to the floor and broke apart into sharp little pieces with a crash. He looked at his uncle, a few steps ahead, an apology ready on his lips, but his uncle’s face was already twisted into red and his fists were balled and ready. Castiel ran. He slipped the grip of the maid who reached out to grab him and escaped into the house. His mind was running on fear and he did not know where he was going until he stopped outside the Red Room._

_People did not go into the Red Room if they could help it. For as long as Castiel could remember, they had talked about it in whispers and kept the door closed, the servants only daring to go in during daylight and even then only when absolutely necessary. There was no one around, so Castiel opened the door, just a fraction, just enough to slip his small body inside, and closed it quietly behind him. It was dingy inside. The shutters on the window were closed, and the red of the walls that gave the room its name, made it feel stuffy so that Castiel felt as if he was drawing hot water into his lungs with each breath._

_Aside from that, it was a bedroom like any other, with a small couch-like bed in the middle, a dresser to the side, and a large wooden wardrobe shoved against one of the walls. The wardrobe stood empty, and with no other plan in sight to help him escape his uncle’s fury, Castiel climbed inside to hide. It was dark and musty, but Castiel felt safer than he had in a long time. He felt as if he was miles away from his uncle. Cradled in warmth and stillness behind the wardrobe doors, Castiel fell asleep curled into a tight little ball._

_He awoke to shouting. Castiel must have been there a while, because the angle of the light that sneaked in between the shutters told of late afternoon._

_“Castiel, I will find you.” Uncle Reed yelled from somewhere downstairs, and of course eventually, he did._

_The door of the Red Room banged against the wall, the handle made a dent in the plaster as it was thrown open with force. Castiel cowered in the shadows of the wardrobe and prayed to God to save him from his uncle’s fists; but Castiel’s prayers went unanswered and he was not transported away, so he tried to stay as still and silent as possible._

_“Did you think I wouldn’t come in here?” Uncle Reed demanded of him. Castiel could see a sliver of the room through the gap between the wardrobe doors. He eased forward slowly and put his eye to the crack. Castiel could see his uncle’s bulky figure as he crossed the room and Castiel could not help but whimper in terror. Uncle Reed looked incensed when he turned at the tiny sound. His gaze fell on the wardrobe and Castiel flinched but he could not take his eye from the lumbering shape as his uncle stalked closer and closer, until he filled up all the space and blocked out the light._

_“You!” Uncle Reed cried out in horror. He backed away from the place where Castiel crouched in the dark, the colour draining from his fleshy face. Castiel could not understand what he was seeing. “No, it can’t be you,” his Uncle said. “No, no, get away from me, get away.” He was backing away and there was an edge of hysteria in his voice. “Get away from me, demon!” He shouted one last time and threw his large body across the room to tumble and scrabble his way out of Castiel’s sight. The door slammed closed behind Uncle Reed and the echoed impact of his heavy steps disappeared as he retreated down the corridor._

_It was Castiel’s turn to feel afraid. The warmth and comfort he had felt before slipped away as the sun sank. He felt cold and started to shiver. He pressed forward and pushed his face against the walnut wood of the doors to try and get a glimpse of what his uncle had seen. There was movement, a flash across the gap, and Castiel found himself eyeball to eyeball with another child, looking back from the other side. A washed out blue eyeball surrounded by a sunken eye socket set into pale skin. He glimpsed a rosebud mouth, the pink of it almost violent. She was wet, her skin was shiny with it and her white dress dripped puddles around her bare feet._

_She moved in a quick jerky motion and pushed the tips of her fingers through the gap towards him. Castiel heard his name whispered but the girl's mouth never moved. He pressed his fingers to hers through the tiny space. She was as cold as a lake in mid-winter. Castiel could not help but recoil from the frost-like bite of the cold on his fingertips._

 

**Saturday 9 th November 1844**

 

It was the light he noticed first. Even through closed eyelids, he could tell it was bright. Next, it was the scent of lavender in the cool winter air. Castiel took a long breath and opened his eyes. He was in bed and it was not one that he knew. The mattress was soft at his back and the covers piled high on top of him were thick and warm and sweetly patterned with embroidered flowers around the edges.

A figure stood over him, silhouetted against the bright winter sunlight that filtered in through a large white framed window. The outline was that of a woman, crowned with an abundance of curly hair that bobbed and bounced in styled ringlets.

“Are you awake, Mr Milton?” the woman asked. The voice was familiar but it took him a little while to recall where he had heard it before. The memory was there; the post-chaise and his journey to Blackthorn Hall, Mr Crabtree and the young widow with the medusa hair.

“Yes I am, thank you,” replied Castiel. His voice croaked and his throat was sore and he struggled not to let the confusion he felt show on his face. He tried to sit up, but the lady near shrieked in alarm. “Joanna stop him! The doctor said he had to rest.” She turned to Castiel, addressing him in a loud measured voice as if he was hard of hearing, or more than a little slow. “The doctor said you were not to move, Mr. Milton, you are not well and you must keep to the bed until it is safe.” He could see her better as she moved away from the window and she smiled brightly at him. If Castiel had been surprised to see the lady from the coach, he was equally as surprised, if not more so, to see Joanna Harvelle appear from behind the lady's shoulder. Jo rolled her eyes, and stood there with her hands on her hips looking at him accusingly. He was not sure what he had done to deserve it.

“What happened?” he asked weakly. Jo raised her eyebrows at him but did not speak.

“Well, Mr Milton that’s a good question! Mr Crabtree and I found you up on the moors, don’t you remember?” she said and patted his hand sympathetically. “You were insensible, so we brought you home with us and sent for the doctor straight away. You’ve been quite unwell for a number of days. But the doctor says it’s nothing that a few hot meals and some rest won’t cure.” She made a happy humming noise in the back of her throat and bounced a little on the balls of her feet. “I expect you are quite surprised to find me here, Mr Milton?” Castiel nodded, though since he actually had no idea where he was, he could not accurately judge what the appropriate level of surprise might be. “Well, what do you think?” She asked with wide eyes. Castiel looked to Jo for some direction but she just continued to frown at him.

“I really have no idea,” he replied honestly.

“Mr Crabtree and I are married, of course!” she squeaked with joy. “These last six months. That is why I am so glad to see you again, Mr Milton, because you were there when my husband and I first met, in the coach, when you were on your way to Blackthorn... you do remember don’t you, Mr Milton?” she asked, a small frown of concern on her face.

“Yes I remember.” Castiel replied, though the line of a frown still wrinkled his brow. His head was fogged and the new Mrs Crabtree’s rapid talk, and her light lyrical voice that rose and fell to match the pattern of her enthusiasm, made it difficult to parse the words. “Congratulations, Mrs Crabtree, I hope you and Mr Crabtree will be very happy together.”

She blushed and lowered her gaze demurely. “Thank you, Mr Milton, I think I can speak for us both when I say we are vastly contented.” She clapped in a childlike gesture, and effectively squashed the formality of the moment between her hands. “I had better go and tell Mr Crabtree the good news. I am sure he will want to see you just as soon as possible.” As she bustled towards the door, her wide skirts swept along the ground with a shushing noise and Castiel briefly wondered how she had managed to fit them through the narrow door. “You know, I believe there is some divine providence at work here, Mr Milton,” she said, “how strange it is that we should be the ones to come upon you in your distress, when Mr Crabtree had been saying only a week ago that he should call on you at the Hall. Then there you were, not three miles from our house. Strange indeed,” she turned to leave the room but paused once more. There was a strange look on her face and she took a deep breath as though steeling herself against fear. “I would just ask you one more thing. We found you on the edge of Blue Moor, now tell me true, Mr Milton, did you encounter the beast?”

Castiel smiled as best he could. “No, Mrs Crabtree, please be assured it was not the beast.” She heaved a sigh of relief, and with a nod of her curly head, hurried away to find her husband. Castiel was left alone with Jo. For someone trying to get away from reminders of Blackthorn, this was not the most promising start. He looked at her and she shook her head solemnly.

“Whatever have you been doing, Castiel?” she asked, her voice was tight and clear and there was suspicion in her gaze as she looked down at him.

“Have you told anyone that I’m here?” He toyed nervously with the edge of a blanket while he waited for her reply.

She narrowed her eyes. “Not yet. I should have. I wanted to. But there’s only one reason I can think of why you’d be out on the moors like that and that’s because you wanted to be there. I don’t think you intended to be found did you?” Her voice and her expression gentled and she came closer and perched on the edge of the bed. Her weight made the mattress dip and the rolling motion made him feel dizzy. “I didn’t think it was my place to tell them if you didn’t want them to know, so I thought it best to wait until you woke up. The doctor was sure it would not take long. Was it the right thing to do?”

“Yes, thank you, Jo,” he replied.

“What on earth has happened, Castiel?” Jo asked sadly. “I thought you and Dean... I thought you were happy at Blackthorn; at least that’s the impression I got from my Ma’s letters.” She snorted as Castiel gave her a sharp look. “Don’t go getting uppity, Castiel, no one’s been telling any secrets, but it doesn’t take genius to read between the lines, poison or not. You don’t see Dean giving up his bed when anyone else at the Hall gets sick.”

Castiel looked past her and out of the big sash window. He could see the top of a tree against a clear blue sky, the last curled up leaves glowed pale yellow in the bright wintery sun. It made an attractive picture and he suddenly wished he had his sketchbook with him so he might lose himself in lines and form for a moment, and not think about what had brought him to be buried under a pile of flower scented blankets in a strange house surrounded by people who were barely even acquaintances.

He looked at Jo and pursed his lips, hampered by indecision. He was not sure he wanted to talk, but at the same time he could feel the words build up behind his teeth. They crowded together on his tongue and pushed to get out, to be heard by sympathetic ears, to make an ally in his distress. It was likely that Jo knew about Dean’s marriage; she was a part of the Hall just as much as her mother was, although she too had chosen to leave, and considering their previous conversations, Castiel suspected he knew why. 

“Come on, Castiel.” It was a demand but not unkindly spoken. “I’ve kept quiet so far but if you don’t tell me what’s going on I’ll have to send word to the Hall eventually, you know that.”

He made the decision and opted to go straight to the heart of the matter.

“Dean lied to me.”

“And you thought the appropriate response was to wander across the wilderness and half kill yourself from exposure?” she mocked.

“I don’t think I was thinking much of anything at the time, I just had to get away from Dean.” Castiel confessed. Jo’s face went serious.

“Did he tell you about the hunting?” she asked. He shook his head. He watched as realisation dawned and Jo’s face went from blank to surprise and then settled on distaste. “Oh,” she said, “the wife. Dean didn’t tell you about her huh?” She reached out and squeezed his hand in ready sympathy. “I’m sorry for it, Castiel. I thought he would have told you, he should have told you. It must have been a shock.”

“You could say that.”

“But he’s told you now. So maybe one day you could forgive him? It seems so sad to give up when she never was, and never could be, what you are to him?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“What do you mean?” Her frown cut a little line in the skin between her brows.

Castiel chewed on his bottom lip, trying to work out the right words. “Dean did not tell me he was married. I found out about it because her brother arrived unexpectedly and demanded to see her.”

“Oh, Castiel.” Jo’s face fell. It was sorrowful and suited her ill and Castiel had to look away.

“He tried to hide it right up to the last possible second,” he continued. “If Mr Robinson hadn’t been so angry, if Dean had been able to get him out of the room, or out of the Hall, to speak to him... I still wouldn’t know about it.”

“Castiel, I’m so sorry,” she said, and gave his hand another light touch. He was surprised that the little gesture helped blunt the sharpest edges of the memory. “Dean has done wrong, but maybe he’s not the only one to blame for it.”

“How? No one made him lie to me.”

Jo sat up a little straighter and ran her hands over her skirt to smooth out the wrinkles. “I think perhaps everyone who knew should share some of the blame. I know John encouraged Dean to keep it secret in the first place, and not just for the sake of appearances. He was truly concerned about her safety as well as what it might do to Dean if something went after her. Back then, it was easy just to forget about it while she was still overseas. We never mentioned it, or talked about it even amongst ourselves. Dean went back to playing the bachelor and we all forgot about it until it seemed like it wasn’t real anymore, and then I think we started to believe it wasn’t real. I know I did. And in a way, it isn’t real for Dean. That woman in the tower is not the girl he married. The girl he married died a long time ago.”

“No,” Castiel disagreed. “She’s still alive; she’s just unwell. It’s pitiable and it’s sad and I understand that Dean was at least partly manipulated, but it doesn’t change the facts. He made his vows and at that moment they were themselves. They stood and made a commitment in the sight of God to stay together ‘in sickness and in health.’ These things are important to me. My faith and my beliefs are important to me. If I go against them, it would be like losing part of my soul. Dean knew that, and so he lied. He as good as told me that himself before I left.”

There was a pause and Jo looked mildly uncomfortable. Her frown deepened as though she was trying to puzzle something out. “But isn’t losing Dean almost as bad as losing part of your soul?” She said quietly. Her face was open and honest, it was clear she was telling him something intensely personal. “I understand what you’re saying, Castiel, and I know I don’t have faith the way you do so I can’t comment on that part of it, but just so you know, there was a time when I thought Dean was everything. If I had thought for even a moment that he could have loved me, the way I am absolutely sure he loves you, then I wouldn’t have let anything get in the way. I would have forgiven him anything, done anything to be with him, even if ten wives had appeared on the doorstep to claim him.” She squeezed his hand and smiled a little sadly. “Some things are worth risking everything for.” She leaned in close and pressed a sisterly kiss to Castiel’s temple. “Dean is a fool, but I think you and I both know that even when it hurts, he is worth the risk.”

“Jo, I think you are better than any of us,” Castiel replied. “I’m not sure you’re right, but I will think about what you said.”

“Shall I let them know that you’re here?” She did not need to clarify who she was referring to.

“Not just yet.” Castiel replied. He did think about what Jo had said, but it was impossible to get past two facts. Dean was bound to another person, and had circumstances not contrived to expose it, Dean would have continued to lie about it and Castiel would have gone on oblivious to the fact that they were both covered in sin.


	25. Chapter 25

**Part 25**

**Tuesday 26 th November 1844**

Castiel recuperated well at the Crabtree’s. The doctor had been right, that all he needed was a few days rest and some hot and hearty meals. A few days soon turned into a few weeks, but since Castiel had nowhere else to go and Mr Crabtree was happy to have his company, it mattered little. Under Mrs Crabtree’s attentions “a few hearty meals” translated into a near constant stream of treats and three course dinners, to the point that Castiel started to worry about his waistline, or at least he would have done if he had had any of his own clothes to wear. The clothes Mr Crabtree had lent him, had to be taken in a good number of inches to stop them falling to the floor each time Castiel stood up. There had been more than one near miss, much to Jo’s amusement and Mrs Crabtree’s flustered embarrassment and blushes. But the Crabtrees were kind people and Jo’s presence proved a calming tonic to prolonged exposure to Mrs Crabtree’s relentlessly high spirits.

Mr Crabtree was much as Castiel remembered him from their brief acquaintance, jovial and good natured but also tempered with good sense and practical knowledge. He was a moderately successful businessman who had invested wisely after coming into a little money, but he had previously worked in the law. It was the latter circumstance that had coincidentally brought Castiel to Mr Crabtree’s attention a few days before they had discovered him, ill and delirious out on the moors.

Mr Crabtree stayed away during the early part of Castiel’s recovery, trusting his care to the ladies of his household.  It was only when the doctor declared Castiel well enough to leave that Mr Crabtree finally sought Castiel out to discuss the mysterious ‘business’ that Mrs Crabtree frequently alluded to in passing. Castiel was in the little parlour when Mr Crabtree arrived. He was reading near the fire, while Mrs Crabtree and Jo sewed silently nearby.

“If you ladies think you can spare him, I’d be grateful for a few minutes alone with the patient,” Mr Crabtree asked as he came through the door, bringing the winter chill in with him. It stirred around their ankles, making Mrs Crabtree’s small dog grumble unhappily by her feet.

Mrs Crabtree grinned. “Of course, my dear, come along, Jo. Let’s go to the library, the fire is good in there today.” Her hair wobbled in an excited manner as she scampered out of the room, while Jo rolled her eyes behind her. Castiel knew, by now, that Jo was actually rather fond of Mrs Crabtree, even while she complained and mocked her mercilessly.

“Are you well today, Mr Milton?” Mr Crabtree began politely. “I see my wife has been lavishing her culinary attentions on you again.” He waved towards the platter of sweet cakes and tarts set out nearby.

“Yes, Mrs Crabtree is very attentive,” Castiel smiled. “You have both been very kind.”

“Yes, yes very good.” Mr Crabtree cleared his throat and shifted a little in his chair, sitting forward to adopt a more formal posture. “Now, Mr Milton I have not asked you any details about how or why you came to be lost on the moors.” He held up his hand as Castiel started to speak. “And I’m not going to ask you now. But I can only presume that your position at Blackthorn did not work out satisfactorily.”

“That’s right. Your wife was more correct than I could have imagined in her judgement about the place. Strange things really do go on there.”

“I dare say,” replied Mr Crabtree a little distractedly as he rifled through the contents of a black work case that he had carried into the room with him. The battered leather bag looked out of place among the flowery patterns and porcelain figurines Mrs Crabtree had scattered on every available surface. “I said before, that our meeting was strangely fortuitous, and I was not just talking about your health but because I have been meaning to come and find you on a matter of business.” Castiel looked puzzled. “I was reluctant to speak of it before you were recovered, for fear it would do more harm than good. For I am a bearer of tidings both good and bad, though if you will permit me to explain in full?”

“Please, Mr Crabtree, continue,” Castiel reassured.

Mr Crabtree fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, clearing his throat a few times in preparation for whatever the bad news was.

Castiel pre-empted him. “Is it about Mr Winchester?” he asked. He tried and failed to keep his voice steady. He had struggled to overcome it, but Dean was still foremost in all his thoughts.

“Lord, no,” Mr Crabtree exclaimed. “No, this doesn’t have anything to do with Blackthorn Hall.” He reached out and patted Castiel on the shoulder in a rough paternal action. “Give me just a few minutes more. Mr Milton and soon you’ll find out that you’ll never have to think of the Hall again if you don’t wish to, and you can thumb your nose at the lot of them from now until judgement day. No, Mr Milton, this is about your own family.”

“I don’t have any family, Mr Crabtree.” There was some mistake clearly.

Mr Crabtree’s mouth formed a surprised little ‘o’ before he recovered himself and nodded. “Well be that as it may, Mr Milton, I believe you did have an uncle.” He brought some papers out of his bag and searched through them for a few moments. “One Mr Reed, owner of Meadham House in Hampshire? Is that correct?” Mr Crabtree leaned forwards as he talked.

Castiel squinted at him in confusion. “Yes, but I’ve had no contact with him since I was a child.”

Mr Crabtree nodded sympathetically but carried on as if Castiel had not spoken at all. “And Mr Reed sponsored you through school after the death of your parents, as I understand it?”

Castiel nodded. “He did, with some reluctance I think.”

Mr Crabtree could not hide his surprise. “Then I take it you were not close?”

“We were not,” Castiel confirmed.

“I have to say that gives me some relief, as I was worried another shock could cause a relapse of some kind.” He shook himself and rustled the papers in his hands. “Very well, very well – in that case I will come to the point. Your uncle passed away last year.” He paused and waited for a reaction from Castiel. When none came, he continued. “His financial affairs were quite complicated and it has taken some time to unravel all the details. I was contacted some weeks ago by a former colleague in London, in relation to the disposal of your uncle’s estate.”

“I cannot imagine what this has to do with me,” Castiel said. “The man hated me and I would rather not speak of him now.”

“I cannot speak for the dead, Mr Milton, but if he did indeed dislike you, then it seems that perhaps he was set on making you some sort of reparation for it as he grew older. My dear Mr Milton, he has left you his estate in its entirety. You are sole heir to his fortune and I have great pleasure in telling you that it is worth a considerable sum.”

Castiel felt ice in his veins. “I don’t want it,” he said in a flat determined tone. “I wanted nothing from that man while he lived and I will not be grateful to him in death. He deserves no such respect.”

“I see what you are feeling,” Mr Crabtree replied. “And your lack of pecuniary interest does you credit, Mr Milton. But let me speak on. There is more yet to come and these further revelations might make the inheritance a little more acceptable to you.”

Castiel nodded and turned to the fire to feel the warmth on his face. “Go ahead, Mr Crabtree.”

“It seems on closer examination of your uncle’s arrangements, that most of his money was gained through the propitious investment of a large sum of money that came into his possession at the time of his sister’s death. Certain paperwork in your uncle’s possession makes it quite clear that this money belonged to your parents. Your parents’ fortune was intended to be held by your uncle in trust to provide for the care and comfort of you and your sister, until you were of age, at which point it should have come to you.” He grinned then. “I don’t know why your uncle didn’t perform this duty, but if you will not accept the money as recompense from him, then you should accept it as a gift from your parents, as it should have been all along.”

Castiel felt dizzy. “I don’t have a sister,” he said. But there was something buzzing in his head, a memory, a flash of red and a cold white hand.

“I’m sorry, Mr Milton I don’t quite understand you?”

“I don’t have a sister. You said that the money was for me and my sister, but I don’t have a sister.”

“Well no, you don’t, but you did.” Mr Crabtree looked stunned for a second, but he did not stop talking. “Mr Milton, are you telling me that you did not know you had an older sister? My dear fellow, I am sorry it has fallen to me to tell you of these things. I am quite shocked.”

“You are my friend, Mr Crabtree, and I am happy to hear anything you have to tell me,” Castiel said quickly, and it was true – the Crabtrees might be ordinary and a little dowdy, funny even in their way, but they were good solid upright people and really the only friends he had away from the Hall. “Please go on.”

“Well, we don’t have any birth records, but it was quite clearly stated in your parents will, that their property and possessions be split equally between their son, Castiel Milton, and their daughter, Anna Milton. Then we have the record of her burial, Anna Milton – she died, aged 8. She was a few years older than you. You would have been very young when she died, perhaps that is why you don’t remember her.”

Castiel tried to understand, but his mind rebelled against it as the pieces snapped into place one by one. The memories came fast, in scraps of sight and sound.

_White dress, big blue eyes, cheeks pink from running and laughing, her red hair flying out behind her, catching and flowing in the breeze. Tumbling together in the late summer grasses that rustled dry and tempting at the fringes of Mr Reed’s parkland. Giggling and holding his hand as they paddled barefoot in the lake. Stroking her fingers through his messy hair and humming a nonsense tune as he fell asleep in a dark red room. Then thin arms shielding him, pushing him out of the way, shouting back as their uncle raged and stormed at some imagined slight. Thick red fingers closing around her throat as Castiel tried ineffectually to pull them away, prise them from around his sister's neck, where they broke blood vessels and made bruises as her eyes rolled back into her head and her lips turned blue. The brown of the lake water that stained her white dress as she sank, eyes open but unseeing, tiny bubbles drifting up to pop and ripple on the surface as though her last breath had risen up from the depths._

Castiel was going to vomit. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and bent over in his chair trying to keep the bile from rising. It was bitter in the back of his throat.

“My God,” he gasped out. “My sister, she’s my sister.” How could he have forgotten?

Mr Crabtree nodded along sympathetically, though he had no idea what Castiel was talking about. “I am sorry for your loss, Mr Milton, but I hope the discovery that you are a wealthy man will soften the blow somewhat. If you will accept the money, I can help you with the necessary arrangements. Do you agree?”

Castiel looked up at him and nodded. “Yes,” he said, “Thank you.”

“Good. Now, Mrs Crabtree will have my guts for garters if I tire out the invalid anymore, so I will leave you to rest.” Mr Crabtree loitered in the doorway, then turned and added. “You know you can stay here with us for as long as you like and I would have said the same, money or no, just so that you know.” And with that he left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Castiel was lucky to have fallen in with such good people. Life was not all monsters and pain and death. It made him hopeful that there might yet be a decent life out there to be lived, a life somewhere far away from the ghosts of Blackthorn Hall. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Part 26**

**Thursday 9 th January 1845**

 

“I have something for you.” Jo handed Castiel a neatly folded letter as he passed her in the entrance hall, on his way to the library with a glass of amber coloured liquid clutched in his hand. He knew where it was from. He could feel the bumps and dips of the wax seal under his fingertips. “Don’t worry, Castiel it’s not from him, it’s from my mother.”

“I did ask you not to tell them where I was,” he said quietly.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “But I couldn’t help it when I saw how worried they were that something bad had happened to you.”

“Something bad did happen to me,” Castiel huffed. “That’s why I left.”

She laughed at the sour comment, then chided him. “Don’t be so self-indulgent, there are a lot of bad things out there and if any of them found out you were connected to the Winchesters, connected to Dean,” she said pointedly. “It makes you a target, and if some creature gets its hands on you, you can be sure those hurt feelings and that precious soul of yours won’t seem so important when you’re trying to scoop your guts up off the floor, or having your throat ripped out.” Castiel stared at her rather wide-eyed at the unexpected telling-off. “I’m sorry,” she said and put a hand on his arm to stop him as he turned to walk away. “That came out harsher than I meant it to. But I really was shocked at how worried they were, though I suppose you had no way of knowing about it either.”

Castiel shook her hand off impatiently. “They knew that I was going. Dean was there when I went. I walked right out the front door and you’re making it sound like I disappeared without telling anyone.”

“You’re right,” she said. “But as it turns out, they did try looking for you. The next day Dean sent people out to ask after you.”

Castiel’s heart thumped painfully at the sound of Dean’s name. “I did not want him to do that.” His memories of those days were vague at best, but it must have crossed his mind that Dean might go after him, why else would he have wandered so far from the road?

“When they realised no one in Crossthorpe or Barlow had seen you, they got worried. Then one of the farmers found your case abandoned on the hillside. It still had the Blackthorn label on it you see, and when he brought it back,” she shook her head. “My Ma said she’d never seen Dean like that before, she said it was like he went mad. He refused to believe that it was your case and when they took it to him he near throttled the poor farmer, accused him of stealing it, said he must be a robber or a murderer. Bobby had to pay the poor man off before sending him home so that he wouldn’t go to the law.”

Castiel sat down on the stairs, His legs felt weak like they had when he had first woken up at the Crabtrees. “I had no idea,” he said. “I knew he would be upset but I didn’t think...”

But Jo had not finished. “She said Dean took himself off to your room after that. They didn’t think anything of it at first, but he didn’t come out for hours and hours and even though he was in there alone with nothing but a bottle of whiskey for company. They could hear him through the door talking and shouting. He thought something had taken you from the road. He thought you were dead, Castiel.”

“He made me want to be dead,” Castiel griped back. “I didn’t know about that and I did not mean for it to happen. By why shouldn’t Dean suffer for it as well, it was his own doing?” It was petty but when it came to Dean he had no sense or reason, and there was a seed of guilt taking root in his gut. Long gone were Castiel’s days of emotionless placidity – there was no going back.

“Then they heard a loud noise and breaking glass,” Jo continued without pause, “they only realised later on that Dean had broken the salt lines around your room and all the wards on the walls outside. Do you understand why?” Castiel shook his head, but stayed mute and stared up at her. Her eyes flashed with a strange sort of fascination as she talked. “He thought you were dead and he was trying to call to your ghost. He though you would go to him, that you would haunt him, because he felt as though he had killed you himself. And he wanted you to haunt him.” she came close and took his face between her hands and looked at him seriously. “Castiel, Dean went against everything he was ever taught as a hunter, just to see you again, because he couldn’t bear the thought of life without you.” 

He pulled away. “I never wanted any of that, it isn’t my fault.”

 “Well you wanted something, whether you realise it or not. No one walks out into the middle of nowhere unless they’re trying to make a point. I should have sent word to the Hall when you arrived here as I wanted to. Then this could all have been resolved in the space of a week. Instead, I did what you wanted and people that I love and care about were hurting needlessly, when I could have done something about it.”

“Dean brought this on himself.” Castiel argued.

“I’m not talking about Dean! Good God, you two are so wrapped up in each other you can’t see anyone else at all can you?” She looked fierce, and Castiel felt shamed before her – she was right and he knew it. “My mother has been worried, Bobby has been worried, Ben has been beside himself. God, even the Christmas pudding was salty from Cook crying into the mix! It was cruel not to let anyone know where you were, Castiel, and it was selfish to ask me to keep it a secret. I should have known better, and don’t think I didn’t get a good telling off for it as well.” She threw her hands up in exasperation.

“Jo, I’m sorry.” He wanted to apologise. Everything she had said was right. He had not thought about anyone else in this, not really. He looked down into the glass he had been holding when Jo had accosted him -- perhaps he and Dean were not so very different after all.

“Read the damn letter or don’t, I’ve done my part. They know you’re alive and they know you’re here, so I suppose what happens next is up to you.” She stormed out of the room leaving Castiel feeling very chastened.

 

_From Blackthorn Hall_

_Wednesday 8 th January 1845_

_Dear Castiel,_

_I hope this finds you well recovered. Joanna always speaks well of the Crabtrees so I am assured that you will be well cared for while you are with them. Please know that I am not writing on behalf of Dean – I have no wish to pry into your private affairs, though I am well aware of what happened to make you leave so suddenly – it is Ben that I am concerned for, and it is for his benefit that I write to you now._

_He misses you greatly and I am worried for him. He has been withdrawn since you left and will not even eat the cakes that Cook has been making to try and tempt him. He has taken it very hard. I know things have been difficult for you, and Dean deserves his punishment – believe me he has been hearing about it from everyone here who loves you, and the number who do might be more than you think. But Ben does not deserve to suffer for it._

_I don’t ask this lightly, but I know you care for the child, so please, if you possibly can, come and see us just one last time. Joanna has told me your news, and that you are making plans to leave soon. I am truly happy for you Castiel, you have a good heart and you deserve some happiness in your life. If you will come, I can arrange to meet you with Ben outside of the Hall grounds if you prefer. I would understand if you would rather not see Dean (though for my part I think it might do you both some good if you could)._

_Always your friend,_

_Ellen Harvelle._

_P.S. since writing the above, Dean has told me that he is not of a mind to stay at the Hall much longer either. He is talking about going to look at some property in America, and I believe he will be gone for some time. I thought you should know before it is too late._


	27. Chapter 27

**Part 27**

**Tuesday 10 th February 1845**

 

“Monsieur Milton, Monsieur Milton!” Castiel heard as he stepped down from the Crabtree’s carriage.

Arranging the meeting had not been an easy task. Castiel had decided against visiting Blackthorn and he was not entirely sure he would even have been welcome there while its owner remained in residence. The winter weather had also proved troublesome and some late snowfalls had made the roads over the peaks impassable and thereby caused additional delays. But at last the appointed day arrived. It dawned bright and cold with a sharp breeze that felt clean and refreshing, even as it turned Castiel’s cheeks and nose pink.

Ben ran to him from the doorway of the inn where he and Ellen were sheltering from the cold. He was wearing a little woollen hat that Becky had knitted for him the previous year and his hair stuck out from underneath in all directions, having grown too long to be neat.

"Que vous-êtes beau,” Ben cried. He caught hold of the edge of Castiel’s coat and examined it in minute detail, rubbing his fingers against the fine threads before he snatched his hand away as though he thought he might make it dirty. He giggled as Castiel crouched down and pulled him into a hug.

“Merci, mon ami,” Castiel replied. He was no longer bound by the rules that Dean had set down at Blackthorn and if Ben preferred to speak in French, so be it. Ellen grumbled her disapproval in the background.

“Are you very rich now, Monsieur Milton? Are you richer than Dean?” Ben asked eyeing the rest of Castiel’s outfit.

“No, not very rich and certainly not richer than Dean,” his voice cracked as it turned around the name. Ben did not seem to notice.

Ellen came over and gave Castiel a perfunctory embrace. “It’s not polite to ask people about money, Ben, you know better than that,” she scolded lightly. “I hope you are well, Castiel, and the boy is right, you do look very handsome.” She smiled, but it was reserved.

The new clothes were down to Mrs Crabtree and Jo’s efforts.

“Jo and I will sort everything out,” Mrs Crabtree had assured him as soon as she had been told about his new found fortune. “We’ll send to Manchester for the cloth and get Mr Burley in Crossthorpe to measure you up...” and she was off. At least Jo was able to keep Mrs Crabtree in check and persuade her that he should stick to the plain dark style of clothing that he was used to, though she had forced him to expand his wardrobe to include some blues and reds and even a scarlet necktie.

When Jo had seen him off from the Crabtree’s house that morning, she had given Castiel a long appraising look and asked if he was likely to see Dean today.

“No, I don’t want to see him,” Castiel had replied.

In return Jo had leaned in close and whispered, “You should, Castiel, one look at you in that,” she said as she tugged down the hem of his midnight blue waistcoat and brushed invisible dust from the shoulders of his black coat, “and I think his eyes would fall right out of his head.”

“I don’t think I’d want that to happen,” he had said, pulling a face at the suggestion. Jo had just laughed and sent him on his way.   

Castiel narrowed his eyes as he realised the implication of what Ellen had just said. “Ellen, do you speak French?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows and tapped her nose enigmatically and Castiel realised, with a sudden surge of feeling, that he rather loved the Harvelles.

Castiel turned back to Ben. “And I’m not Monsieur Milton anymore, Ben, I’m not your teacher now. Now you must call me Castiel, like my other friends do.”

“I would like that,” Ben said then started a strange sort of jig of celebration right in the middle of the road.

“He’s missed you terribly,” Ellen said beside him.

“Well, Ben can visit when I’m settled in London. I’ll write and let you know my address as soon as I can. Mr Crabtree’s lawyer friend is helping me to find somewhere suitable.”

“I wasn’t talking about Ben,” she replied.

The hurt was still there. It was buried underneath new friends and new money and new found family, long dead but not yet at rest. But it was still there, and it still cut him open when he thought of Dean.

“Nothing’s changed Ellen and there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

“His heart is turning hard, he keeps to himself, drinks alone, doesn’t talk to me or Bobby, hardly sees Ben and when he does, he’s short tempered and mean. I’m worried about him Castiel, I’m worried about what will happen to him if he goes off to America on his own like this.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

“Won’t you just see him?”

The thought made Castiel’s stomach turn over with anxiety. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” She put her hand on his arm. She wasn’t wearing gloves, so he covered it with his own to keep her warm.

“Please, Castiel. I know it would be difficult for you and I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t so worried, but I’m afraid I’m watching him slowly kill himself with guilt and regret. I’ve seen it before, I watched it happen to Dean’s father. I don’t want to see it happen again, I can’t.”

“I’m not dead Ellen.”

“No, but he mourns you still.” 

Castiel took a deep breath. “I don’t want to see him but maybe I could write?” he suggested and he saw a flicker of hope ignite in Ellen’s eyes. “There are perhaps things that still need to be said, now that we’ve both had a little time.”

“Yes,” she said jumping on the idea, “that might give him some hope at least, something to stay alive for.”

“I don’t think there is any hope, but I’ll do it if you want me to. You have always been a good friend to me Ellen. Come and stay with me when I’m settled. Come with Ben and we can explore London together.”

Ellen hummed, “I’ll certainly think about it.” They walked on in silence as Ben ran on ahead.

The place they had chosen to meet at was on the road to Barlow, little more than an inn, a chapel, and a handful of stone cottages by the roadside, where bedraggled chickens clucked and scratched at the hard earth. They had only a few hours together and spent most of it eating lunch at the inn before walking to the chapel. It was tiny, not much more than a stone hut with an altar and a couple of benches, but it made Castiel realise how much he had missed his regular church visits. The Crabtree’s home was too remote to venture out when the weather was poor and there was no place of worship within easy walking distance. When he prayed, for the first time in a long time, he prayed for Dean, who wore his wounds like armour against the world, and did not even have the consolation of faith to fall back on.

The temperature dropped as the sun headed towards the west, and Castiel offered to take Ellen and Ben back to Blackthorn in the Crabtree’s carriage. They had come on foot and readily accepted the offer. It was a half day’s travel back to the Crabtree’s and Castiel had planned to overnight at the inn instead of travelling in the dark – an idea that alarmed Mrs Crabtree no end. The thought of seeing Blackthorn again made Castiel a little uneasy, but he would have to see the place again eventually, and they could drop Ellen and Ben off by the gates easily enough. Ben, in particular, was keen to take advantage of the offer since the Crabtree’s carriage was almost brand new, a wedding gift from Mr Crabtree to his new wife.

“It’s a bit late for burning back the heather,” said Ellen as they headed back around the last wide turn of the road. She wrinkled her nose as a smoky fragrance permeated the coach.

“Perhaps the gardeners are burning the debris from the storm last week?” Castiel suggested. The Crabtrees had been forced to fell a number of trees that had lost their limbs to the fearsome wind and hard-slanted sleet that had rattled the windows incessantly for two days.

As they approached the final turn in the road, Castiel’s skin started to tingle and crawl as though there were a dozen spiders creeping across him. Castiel had never come down the road in a carriage, only ever on foot, and it felt like he was looking at the world from the wrong side as they swerved round the bend and he waited to catch sight of the Hall, instead of watching it disappear from view. Castiel waited for his heart to drop as he looked out of the window and towards the Hall.

It did not so much drop as tear itself free from his chest entirely.

“Oh my God!” Ellen cried out. It woke Ben who had fallen asleep across Castiel’s legs. Castiel stared in utter disbelief at the picture presented in the dip of the valley below. Smoke and flames poured from Blackthorn Hall. Black billowed from the arrow slits of the tower and the windows of the upper story along the west wing. It reminded Castiel of Meg, when she had vomited up thick coils of greasy smoke that had wreathed about on the floor. It was as though Blackthorn was exorcising its own rotten innards, spitting them out into the night-cold air where they formed a thick cloud that tasted of ashes.

Ellen shouted to the driver to go faster and in the space of a minute they were outside the gates. Ben was upset and he struggled to escape the carriage, his small fingers scrabbling at the handle.

“No,” Castiel shouted and pushed the boy back down into his seat. Ben burst into tears and pressed his face into his hands so he did not have to watch his home burn to the ground.

Ellen was already up and out and running down the driveway with her skirts hitched up in her hands, freeing her to move faster towards the chaos of bodies that moved to and fro in the yard.

“Ben, stay here,” Castiel ordered.

“I’ll see that he stays put up here, Sir,” said the driver, who had climbed down to lead the horses away from the main road. Castiel nodded an acknowledgement to the man, then turned and sprinted towards the Hall.

Lines had already formed, between the well in the stable yard and the west part of the Hall. Bobby barked orders at the soot besmirched servants who heaved water-laden pails and buckets, passing them one to another over and over again. Every now and then, tired hands slipped and precious water slopped uselessly onto the ground but Bobby drove them on, ordered them to fight and resist with every ounce of strength they had left. But Castiel saw fear in his eyes as he drew closer, he was worried and his motivational rhetoric was a barely concealed lie.

“It’s the west side and the tower,” Bobby shouted, completely unfazed by Castiel’s sudden appearance amid the fray.  “We can keep it contained, but we’ll lose a good chunk of the building.”

“Is everyone out?” Castiel searched the faces of the people that ran about with their heads tipped forwards and their mouths covered with cloths to keep out the ashes. He expected at any moment to see freckled skin and the flash of green eyes among the army of fire fighters, but there was no sign of Dean.

Bobby glanced towards Gwen. She sat on the frozen verge wide-eyed and shocked, her cap gone and her brown hair loose around her shoulders. The tracks of tears had cleared paths down each cheek and she wrapped her arms around her middle as her small frame was wracked by a wicked sounding cough. She looked young and scared and Castiel almost failed to recognise her. He looked at Bobby as a seed of suspicion took root.

“Where is Dean?” Castiel asked. His voice dropped low and dangerous and his face set like stone as Bobby opened and closed his mouth helplessly. “Where is he?” Castiel asked again, more urgently this time.

“Inside,” Bobby growled as he found his voice. He looked pale, even beneath the coating of grime. “Dean’s still inside. That damn woman wouldn’t come down. Gwen got out but Dean went back in for her... I told him not to.” Bobby’s eyes looked wet and his voice broke and stumbled on the words. “I tried to stop him. I went after him to drag him back, but I lost him in the smoke.”

“Where was he, Bobby?” Castiel grabbed Bobby’s arm to try and get him to focus on the question. “I need to know exactly where he was the last time you saw him.”

“Near to the tower, second floor,” Bobby replied letting out a hiss as Castiel released him. “Good luck, son,” he murmured and clapped Castiel once on the shoulder. Then Bobby was gone, back to where he was needed to coordinate the troops on the frontline. Castiel turned away, his battle would take place on enemy territory and it could not be delayed. He looked up at the monster, inhaled a breath that stung his lungs, then started to run, straight towards the bright burning heart of Blackthorn Hall.


	28. Chapter 28

**Part 28**

**Tuesday 10 th February 1845**

 

The west wing was ablaze. Flames spewed acrid smoke that filled every inch and set down grimy sediment, layer upon layer, until everything looked carbonized and already burned, like an omen of what was yet to come. Plaster and burnt wood fell from the ceiling and peeled from walls. It cascaded down past Castiel like a waterfall of sparks and fire that popped and crackled with licks of red and yellow flame. The rip and roar of Blackthorn’s demise was cacophonous. The sound of it ebbed and flowed around Castiel like laughter, as if the fire was alive as it gnawed on the Hall’s wooden bones.

Gritty ashes scratched on the soft surface of Castiel’s eyes until they were raw red and weeping, but Castiel did not need sight to find Dean. He could feel Dean’s presence in the familiar tug and twist buried in the meat behind his ribs.   

“Get over here now!” Dean’s voice slipped through the smoke. He sounded angry and panicked as he shouted at Cassie. “Come here, and don’t be so fucking stupid!”

Castiel reached the second floor and stumbled round a turn in the stairs following the pull in his chest and the muffled voices. Dean had his arm stretched out towards Cassie as he shouted and entreated her to go with him. He was dirty and singed, red-faced from heat and anger and he coughed between words from the poisonous fumes.  Castiel could have sobbed with relief at the sight of him, alive and unhurt.

Cassie wore a rictus grin. “Come, my love,” she sang in a low voice, strangely unaffected by the smoke. “Come to the tower. We’ll be safe there. They can’t reach us up there. The windows are too small for them to fit through.” She looked demonic, framed against a backdrop of flames that curled up the walls around her. Her eyes were empty pools, madness the only thing alive inside her.  She was sad and dreadful at the same time.

“Alright then,” Dean reasoned with her, “we’ll go to the tower together, just take my hand.” She ignored his entreaty and gyrated in a sinuous dance. Her hips swinging in time to the pulsating rhythm of the flames that reached out towards her like clutching hands. She beckoned Dean forward, and somehow, to Castiel's horror, he followed as he pleaded with her. Each time she slipped away he took a step closer, unconscious of the spell she cast.

“Dean,” Castiel called to him, but his voice was drowned out by a loud crack and rumble. The whole west side of the Hall was becoming unstable. The floorboards smouldered and started to buckle under his feet, a sign that the fire had taken hold below. There was no time for delay. He darted forward and grabbed Dean by the shoulder to haul him back. Dean startled and twisted away, alert with suspicion at the unexpected touch. Dean’s eyes widened with fear as he caught sight of Castiel through the smoke.

“Get out.” Dean yelled. He pushed Castiel back towards the stairs with so much force that they both staggered away from Cassie and her mad dance. “What are you doing here, Cas? Get out now!” There was near hysteria in his voice as he pushed at Castiel’s chest. It was a futile effort. Castiel would not be moved and he stood his ground.

“We go together,” Castiel said. It was a statement, not a request, and Castiel closed his hand tight around Dean’s wrist like a shackle. Their eyes caught for a moment and Dean nodded.

There was a scream and a furious, “No!” as Cassie realised Castiel had claimed her prize. “No! You were gone,” she cried. Her face twisted up into something ugly and corrupt. “Monster,” she screamed. “What are you? What are you? What are you?”

In an agony of defeat, she lunged at Dean and shoved him with a strength born of lunacy. Dean stumbled and fell, forced to scramble away further as the floor fractured under the impact and started to disintegrate. A chasm yawned open as wood tumbled down into the burning pit below. Flames surged up from the gaping maw that ran the width of the corridor, leaving Dean and the escape route on one side, and Castiel stranded with Cassie on the other.

Dean was cursing and swearing beyond the writhing bars of flame between them. “Just stay there, Cas,” Dean shouted, “just hold on and I’ll get you out.” But there was nothing Dean could do and they both knew it.

“No, Dean,” Castiel shouted back. “Go outside and I’ll take Cassie to the tower, we might be able to climb down from there,” he lied. The flames were too high, the noise too loud, and Castiel had no idea if Dean had even heard him.

The chances of escape were slim to nonexistent as the only way they could move was towards the seat of the inferno – it was not difficult to work out why the fire had started in that part of the Hall or what, or rather who, had caused it – but the choice was to try or to die ignominiously right there in the corridor. Castiel turned to face Cassie. She was a problem, but she had no power over Castiel, could not hypnotise him the way she had Dean, and Castiel was willing to manhandle her if it would save them. But Cassie did not want to be saved.

There was a glint as light glanced off metal. Cassie threw herself at Castiel with a furious scream and the knife in her hand sliced up and in. There was a sharp shout, then Castiel looked down at the hilt that protruded from his stomach. It took a moment for the pain to kick in. Castiel fell to his knees and stared up at Cassie in shock.

“You should have helped me,” she spat at him, “you were supposed to help me, but God has abandoned this place, God has abandoned us all.” She sneered, grasped the handle of the blade and used her foot to push him off it and away, as if she was discarding a piece of rubbish too tainted to handle.

Castiel slumped to the floor and it was hot where it pressed against his cheek. Blood pumped out of the wound, sticky between Castiel’s fingers. It ran in a thick red line across the floor, then dripped down to sizzle in the flames where the floor had fallen away. He thought he heard Dean shouting, but Castiel could not be sure. He could do nothing but watch Cassie lift the blade again as she gloated in triumph, ready to mete out her covetous justice with a final blow.

Castiel watched death approach in slow motion, and he closed his eyes as the blade fell in an arc towards his chest.

In that moment, the world fell away and then resolved into a sharp point of startling clarity, and all Castiel could see was Dean, beautiful, stalwart, foolish Dean. The deception, the hurt and the conflict Castiel had nursed in his bruised moral centre evaporated into nothing. They were superficial sentiments as fragile and fickle as the seasons. Time would change them, as surely as the leaves would turn and fall from the trees in autumn. Castiel’s love for Dean was as eternal and unchanging as the rocks buried deep beneath the windswept moors. Dean was in Castiel’s heart and his soul because part of him was Dean. They fitted together because they were the missing pieces of each other, always pulling towards one another in their yearning to be made whole, each as necessary to the other as breath was to life.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a great renting sound of stone tumbling and wood rupturing as part of the outer wall of Blackthorn crumbled into ruins. The air froze. Castiel’s breath laboured in weak gasps as he waited for the fatal blow. It did not come. His eyelids fluttered open and he watched each small puff of his breath condense in the frigid air. It made no sense. The world did not freeze when there was nothing but fire all around. Castiel wondered if he was dead. But no, Cassie still stood over him but her arms had fallen lax to her sides, and her eyes bulged from her head in fear.

“No.” She cried. “No... No... No,” she sobbed the word over and over as she backed away. “You’re not supposed to be here. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Castiel twisted around on the floor to see the dead sister he had forgotten about for so many years standing beside him. She looked solid and real, though she dripped water and her feet left a wet trail when she stepped in front of Castiel to place herself once more between her brother and his attacker, cursed in death to endlessly repeat the final act of her life.

Anna lifted her head. “I warned you what would happen if you chose this path, Cassandra,” she said, her child’s voice steady and determined.

“No... no...  no...” Cassie was still moaning as she danced from foot to foot, nervous and animal like. “You don’t understand. He came to take my husband from me! He should not be here, he should not be here.” There were flecks of foam on her lips. She looked past Anna’s small figure straight at Castiel. “You should be dead!” she cried in anguish, “Why didn’t you die?” Her words dissolved into moans and growls.

Anna moved toward her, untouched and untroubled by the fire that seemed almost to cringe away from her as she went by. “I would never allow it,” Anna told her.

With a final scream of fury and despair, Cassie raised her knife and tried to slash at the little girl in front of her. The blade did nothing, and passed through Anna as through thin air. With that attack thwarted, Cassie tried to dart around Anna, her attention moving back to Castiel, but as she moved, so did Anna. She looked like a child, but she was no such thing, and power crackled around her, like the heavy moment before a lightning strike. Cassie was restrained as Anna wrapped her thin arms around the woman’s waist, holding her there, trapped. Cassie raved and contorted as she tried to escape Anna’s grip, but she could not get free. Instead, Cassie tried to retreat. She moved away from Castiel down the corridor and towards the tower. It was a horrible sight as Cassie and Anna pushed and pulled at each other as though they were dancing a grotesque Quadrille together. There was a grating noise from above, and they disappeared behind a fall of smoke and debris, as a section of the roof caved in. Castiel had to cover his eyes with the crook of his arm, but the return of the heat and the noise of the fire told him that Cassie and Anna were gone.

Castiel pressed a hand over the leaking hole in his belly and struggled to his feet. Anna’s presence seemed to have dulled the pain, but it returned fast. He could hear Dean on the other side of the hole in the floor, shouting and calling out Castiel’s name. Unsurprisingly, Dean had not left as Castiel had asked him to. There was only one way out. The stairs, if they were still intact, were on the other side of the chasm and Castiel had to try and jump. It would hurt, but pain would fade and burns would heal if he was alive at the end of it. He took a breath, put his life in God’s hands, and jumped.

Heat ripped and blistered up Castiel’s sides as flames licked at his legs, his arms, and his unprotected face. As his feet touched the ground on the other side, the floor started to fracture and crumble under him, and Castiel started to slide away as he gasped from the pain of the flames and the tearing sensation of the wound in his stomach. Dean’s hands were on him instantly, hauling Castiel back from the precipice and pressing out the flames that had caught on his clothes.

“You stupid son-of-a-bitch,” Dean griped before erupting into a choking cough. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Castiel grabbed Dean’s hands to stop their restless movement. “I think we should go now,” he said seriously.

Dean spared him a disbelieving look. “Really? Do you think?” he replied sarcastically. “Is Cassie..?” Dean asked a moment later.

Castiel shook his head. “I’m sorry Dean.”

“No time for that now, come on,” Dean said as he pulled Castiel’s arm around his neck and half dragged Castiel to the top of the staircase, ignoring his groans of protest at the rough treatment. The steps were just about still intact but would not be for much longer. They stumbled their way towards clean air and freedom, but the fire was hard on their heels. It closed in from all sides and pushed bitter smoke into their eyes and down their throats. Blackthorn screamed and hollered around them as they tried to escape, but it would not let them go.

There was a horrible moment as the stairs collapsed. There was a lurch and a wave of nausea as the world tilted and they were suspended for a moment before they fell, landing crumpled and broken like the rest of the Hall’s debris.

There was darkness. Dean called out in pain, then fell silent.

“Dean, Dean, wake up.” Castiel could feel Dean beside him. They had not been separated in the fall at least, and he traced his hands up to Dean’s face while he checked for and found the shallow puff of breath that meant Dean was alive. There was a thick beam balanced over their heads. It held up the blackened wreckage waiting to crush them, and created a small space among the cinders. Fire crept up on all sides and the marks of it were on Dean’s hands and face and it made Castiel furious, and quite irrationally, he wanted to scream and rail at the fire and the smoke for daring to touch him.

“Brother.” The voice was small and calm.

“Anna, please help us,” Castiel pleaded. She stood by his feet, and at once Castiel felt better, his pains eased and the flames retreated, even the smoke appeared to thin and flee from her chill company.

She shook her head. “I can’t, brother.”

“You can,” he argued, “just lead us out, please.”

She stepped close and Castiel could feel frost form on his skin. “I’ve already done as much as I can,” Anna said a little sadly, “Now it’s up to you, Castiel. I had hoped, for your sake, that it would not come to this. ”

“I don’t understand.” Castiel looked at her in confusion. She reached out and her fingers skirted around the edge of his collar, then dipped inside. The cold made him shiver as she pressed against his skin. She pulled, and the small silver cross that he wore around his neck came away with a snap of the cord it hung from. She dangled it in front of his eyes, letting it swing there for a few seconds, then pressed it into his palm with her frozen fingers. It was, as ever, warm in his hand.

“You will understand. It will all come back to you in time. Have faith, Castiel, you followed the path blindly, but it led you to exactly where you were meant to be,” she whispered and pressed his blistered fingers closed over the cross. She closed her eyes and bent her head as though she was in prayer, and muttered something in a language that sounded hard and guttural.

The cross jumped in Castiel’s fist. He felt it fracture and the sharp edges of the metal cut into his hand, breaking the skin. There was no pain and Castiel stared transfixed as a bright white light started to spiral out from between his fingers, spinning, spilling and twisting like silken threads. The bright tendrils spread out and over his skin. They wrapped around his wrist and travelled up his arm to disappear under the cloth of his shirt. He could feel it, as it spread out across his body like a web. It was warm and glorious and it healed his wounds and repaired his burned skin. He felt it like a caress on his face and he opened his mouth to breathe it in.

He looked at Anna in wide-eyed astonishment. “What is it?” She looked back and she was transformed. It was like he was looking through someone else’s eyes. The bruises and soaked dress were still there, but there was another Anna layered underneath, or perhaps pasted over the top; a girl with sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. There was something else too, something big and diaphanous that moved around and through her, and when she spoke, the other parts of her spoke as well.

“You’ll remember everything soon enough,” she told him, “but time is short, you should take him and go while you can. This is all I can give you for now. Don’t be afraid, Brother.” She lifted her hand and pressed two fingers to his forehead. 


	29. Chapter 29

**Part 29**

 

_Friday 2 nd November 1821_

 

_“Why have they sent us here Anael?” Castiel asked, as he watched a window on the first floor explode outwards, shards of glass peppering the winter dried grass. It was a shame that humans always had to ruin the natural beauty of this world._

_“There are demons involved, we only have to watch and report back.”_

_There was a scream._

_“Perhaps we should go inside then? I can’t sense the demon from here,” Castiel suggested._

_“Agreed,” Anael replied, and they were inside the building, squeezing their grace down to something approximating human size so that they could fit. The fire was spreading quickly and there were people running to get out, their night gowns and caps flapping as they went. There was a man shouting frantically from somewhere up the stairs._

_“Do you feel it?” Anael asked._

_“Yes,” Castiel replied, his grace pulsed with agitation at the black stain of a demonic presence. “It’s strong, more powerful than usual. Should we do something?” The thought of smiting the black thing, removing it from their Father’s beautiful world was appealing. They had done nothing but watch for so long, that Castiel itched to feel the cool angles of his blade once more._

_“Our orders are just to observe.”_

_Castiel’s grace pulsed again in response to a second presence in the building. “Is there something else here?” he asked, trying to identify the sensation. It wasn’t the irritating discomfort of a demon, it was not unpleasant in that way, but it was not like the warmth and comfort of another angel's grace either._

_“No, I don’t think so.” Anael radiated concern while she considered him. “What do you feel?”_

_“I’m not sure,” he replied. Castiel concentrated on the source of the disturbance and followed it. He moved up the stairs and into the heart of the fire. There was a golden light and it was brighter than any of the flames, pure and pulsing with vital energy. It swirled and beat in time to the heart of the small body that contained the glowing centre. It was a human soul and Castiel had never seen one so beautiful or strong before. But the boy was scared, and his soul was filled with his fear and Castiel could hear him trying to keep his voice steady as he spoke. “It’s alright, Sammy,” the boy said, “It’s alright, we’re going to get out. It’ll be over soon I promise.” Without thinking, Castiel stretched his grace towards the golden light, yearning to sooth the child’s terror._

_“Castiel, what are you doing?” Anael was alarmed and her grace twitched as she watched. “Demon!” she hissed. The black, vile thing was hideous, twisted and warped beyond belief. It stalked towards the little boy who shone so brightly and Castiel realised for the first time that there was a second light there as well, fainter than the first, because it was shaded with something dark and oily, something that should not have been there._

_“What would Papa say if we just took the both of you right now, hmm?” the demon said. Its voice was painful to Castiel, like the screams of all of perdition channelled through human vocal chords. This was no ordinary demon. The yellow of hell-fire flashed and crackled under its skin, and it saturated and tainted the air around it with the stench of sulphur and the rotting meat of the carcass it wore. The boy whimpered in fear as the man brought his face in close and sniffed at the child’s skin, but he did not run. He stood his ground and clutched the bundle he was holding tighter to his chest. “Don’t really need you big brother, but hey, you’ve got some spirit haven’t you, pretty sure we could make something good of you down in the pit, and if nothing else it’ll piss off Papa if we spit roast you like the little pig that you are, hmmm?” The demon dug his claws into the boy’s arm and the child screamed._

_“Step away from the child!” Castiel ordered as he materialised on the human plane of perception with his sword drawn, ready to engage the demon in battle._

_“No, Castiel,” Anael hissed. She remained invisible and only Castiel could hear her, or feel the irate fluctuation of her grace._

_The demon released the boy and stepped back. He just looked like a man on this plane of reality, all except for his sickly looking yellow eyes. The demon looked more surprised than afraid._

_“Well, well, got friends in high places haven’t you little one,” he hissed. “Never mind, I’ll catch you and baby brother later, much later.” The demon turned around and walked into the flames, disappearing with a rather anticlimactic popping sound._

_“Castiel, we were not supposed to interfere,” Anael cried and her grace trembled and dimmed in her distress._

_“I couldn’t let the demon take the boy,” Castiel tried to explain, though he could barely understand it himself._

_“It was the will of heaven that this should come to pass, Castiel. Are you questioning our orders?” Anael asked seriously. She did not sound angry any more, just intrigued._

_“Yes,” Castiel looked down at the boy and found that he was being watched in return. The child was wide-eyed, and rightly so, Castiel was only in an approximation of a human form, and he had no idea what it was the child might be seeing. Castiel’s grace hummed in pleasant surprise at the child’s bravery._

_“Thank you” the boy said and he reached towards Castiel. There was a jolt as the boy’s soul bumped against Castiel’s grace and he felt something just short of pain echo through him for a moment. The boy laughed, his fear forgotten as he pulled his hand away quickly and looked at the traces of light stuck to his fingers. He left a tiny trail of gold in the blue-white light of Castiel’s grace._

_“Castiel, I think we should leave,” Anael said. Her grace swirled in agitation._

_Castiel looked around. “The house is still on fire.” He looked down at the boy wondering what might be the right thing to do._

_“You want him to be safe?” Anael asked curiously._

_“Yes,” Castiel replied. “I’ll move him outside.”_

_“You should remove his memory of this, Castiel. Humans do not always react well to the knowledge of angels.” She was right. Castiel stretched out and brushed his grace lightly against the child’s forehead and moved him to a safe place in the garden, cutting out the little chunk of memory that contained the demon and Castiel at the same time. Somehow it made him sad._

_“I will be in trouble for disobeying.”_

_“Yes, Castiel, I fear you will.”_

_“There might be another way,” Castiel said, as the part of his grace the boy had touched ached and pulled strangely. “You told me that you were having doubts, about our orders, about our mission. Is that still true, Anael?”_

_“Yes, I have doubts,” she said, as they moved together into the sky, the fire from the house flickering like a candle in the dark expanse of the night-cloaked moors. “The boy is special,” she said, “We might be able to keep him safe if we land close enough.”_

_Castiel grabbed onto the idea and held it close. “We should arrive before this time if we are going to change anything,” he replied. And they moved backwards, squeezing between the years, going back to the beginning. “Anael are you sure?”_

_“I am. I think you suspected I’ve been contemplating this,” she stretched out her grace and they linked together, holding close so that they would land near to one another. “Good luck, Brother,” she said._

_“Good luck, Sister,” he replied._

_Then they started to fall._

 

**Tuesday 10 th February 1845**

 

Castiel climbed to his feet among the ruins, and the flames and the smoke died back, retreating from him the same way they had from Anna. He could see through the darkness, through the debris and out into the dusk beyond. It felt new and old at the same time. Anna reached out a hand to him and she no longer felt cold at all, but familiar and comforting.

“It was only a drop of grace and it won’t last long,” she said, “go while you still can.”

Dean was unconscious on the floor, but Castiel could plainly see the golden light around him now, pale gold like the sun on a late summer afternoon when it catches on the constellations of dust that dance in the air. He had caught glimpses of it before, had dreamed of it, remembered it, but now he was seeing it clearly for the first time with his human eyes.

“You were right about him, Castiel,” Anna said with a forlorn little smile as she looked at Dean. “He was worth the fall.” Her little hand squeezed his fingers, the childish gesture somehow at odds with the rest of her now. “Go,” she ordered, “be happy, Castiel.”

Castiel nodded. He pulled Dean into his arms and his eyelids fluttered, revealing flashes of green, as he started to come round. With one arm slung around Dean’s waist, Castiel was able to drag him to the back stairs and down towards the kitchens in search of an exit, as the fire regained its courage and started to creep back in towards them. Castiel looked back over his shoulder one last time, but he could no longer see Anna among the ruins. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Part 30**

**Tuesday 10 th February 1845**

 

They watched from the gardens as Blackthorn Hall shuddered and shook in its death throes. The entire west side of the Hall was gone, burned to ashes. The school room, Dean’s rooms, the library where the books had helped the fire burn so fierce that the lead from the windows had melted in a slick of dark tears that ran down the stone and pooled on the ground. They were all gone. Stones and blackened struts had tumbled together into rough cairns in memorial to what had been lost. Bobby still directed the dirt-flecked men and women hither and thither as needed. He had kept his head, kept the troops in line, and as the night wore on, the fire had been contained. Now it could only burn itself out and had to be satisfied by gorging on only half a Hall.

Castiel sat, with Dean propped flush against his side, as they watched the fire stutter to its conclusion. Castiel had, of course, emerged unscathed, save for a few scratches and blisters acquired on the way out, and a dull ache in his abdomen where an angry red line was the only evidence that remained of Cassie’s attack. Dean, however, was suffering from the ill effects of the smoke as well as a series of burns and bruises from their fall through the stairs. A cough ripped sporadically from deep in Dean’s lungs. It made him shake and caused Ellen to fuss over him, thumping his back with firm hands and gently chastising him for staying in the Hall so long. Castiel regretted that he could not help, and his hands itched to heal him, but Anna had been right and the meagre drop of grace from his cross had long since dissipated - even the burst of repressed memories, so harsh and bright in the moment, had started to turn fuzzy, clouded at the edge.

No one mentioned Mrs Winchester. No one asked how or why the fire had started because they all knew, and it hung over them as thick and heavy as the smoke that blotted out the moon and the stars above. Gwen cried out her grief alone. For all her outward severity and grim demeanour, she had obviously been fond of her troubled charge. Dean made no mention of it, but Castiel could see he was affected. Dean may not have loved his wife, but she was a victim of her family’s machinations just as much as Dean, and in the end she was just another person Dean had been unable to protect. Castiel could see the guilt in him, another shadow and another ghost to add to those he already kept hidden behind his green eyes.

“Did I see the girl?” Dean asked, “When we were separated? I thought perhaps I caught a glimpse of her through the fire.”

“Yes, she came to me. She helped me,” Castiel said.

“I guess when the wall fell, it broke the wards that were keeping her out. Who was she?”

“My sister,” Castiel replied. Dean looked at him and raised a questioning eyebrow. Castiel leaned in and pressed his lips to Dean’s temple. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of ashes from his hair. There were things Dean needed to know and Castiel could not be sure how well Dean would take them. But there was no space for deceit between them now. “Dean, we have a lot to talk about. There are things happening that I don’t even understand yet...”

Dean lifted a sooty finger and pressed it to Castiel’s lips. “Not now, Cas. My home just burnt down and I don’t want to talk about anything supernatural right now.” Dean sighed. “Can we just pretend to be normal people for a while?”

Ellen had been called away a few minutes earlier. Bobby watched the flames cautiously, with an expression so offended, anyone would have thought the fire had started as a very deliberate and personal insult to him, and Ben was asleep in the Crabtree's carriage, bundled in blankets after crying himself out. They were alone together for the moment, sitting on the ground with the heat from the Hall warming their hands and faces, like travellers round a very strange campfire.

Castiel gave a small smile. “Will you rebuild?”

Dean nodded and coughed again. “Of course,” he said when he had recovered. “But it’ll take a lot of work.”

“You’ll fix her, Dean, I know you will,” Castiel murmured.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. “Her?” he exclaimed. “You think Blackthorn is a woman?”

“Yes, and so do you,” Castiel said quietly. “She is your constant, your home; she holds your family inside her arms and keeps them close, binds the people you love to you in a way that blood alone cannot.” The truth of it was right there in front of them, written into the movements of the figures that scurried to and fro doing the best they could to keep their home alive. No one had fled when disaster had struck, no one had run in terror, or abandoned one another to seek safety for themselves. Each member of the household, Ellen, Cook, Becky and Ava, right down to the youngest stable hand and the oldest gardener, each and every one had been willing to risk their lives for the sake of Blackthorn, and for its Master.

Dean slipped his arm around Castiel’s back, to curl his fingers lightly over the curved bone of Castiel’s hip. “And has she brought you back?” Dean asked, as he shifted a fraction closer, and then twisted so that they could look at each other properly. Castiel did not reply, but his heart beat faster as he had time to look at Dean for the first time in months. There were burns on his face, a small cut on his cheek that was already scabbed over, and tiny flecks of soot clung to his eye lashes and dotted his face like a new batch of freckles.

“Cas, I made a huge fucking mistake... lots of mistakes, and I’ll probably make more but...”

“Why?” Castiel asked, cutting Dean off. He schooled his face into a blank expression. “Are there more wives you haven’t told me about?” he asked with all the seriousness he could muster before his mouth tilted up at one side in response to Dean’s quiet chuckle.

“Definitely no more wives,” Dean replied. Then his expression turned serious again. “I heard about the inheritance, you’re a rich man now, Cas.”

“I am.”

“You can buy a home of your own, go where ever you want.”

“I can.”

“Please don’t.” Dean looked down and Castiel watched his face twitch in agitation as he tried to find the right words. “You already have a home, Cas. I know I fucked up, but you still have a home here with...” Castiel swallowed the rest of Dean’s words. He leaned forward and lifted a hand to the back of Dean’s head and slipped his fingers through the short hair there, as he held Dean in place and kissed the words and thoughts from his mind and from his lips. Dean’s fingers clenched, digging into Castiel’s skin and dragging him in, pulling him closer. It was warm and intense, Castiel’s nerves as alive to the sensation of Dean’s mouth and Dean’s body as he had always been, but it was tempered by exhaustion and the presence of other people. They broke apart breathing heavily and Dean at last dared to look into Castiel’s eyes.

“You’ll stay?” Dean asked, hopeful.

Castiel looked over at the Hall then back at Dean. “I’m not sure,” he replied with a sigh. “I don’t think anyone is going to be staying here for a very long time.” There was much still to be arranged, but the details could wait, as the seeds of a decision and a plan took root in Castiel’s mind. “I rented a house in Cheapside,” he said.

Dean frowned as though this made no sense to him at all. “You can give it up can’t you, if you’re renting?”

“I’m going there in a few days.” Dean’s face fell and he tried to move away, but Castiel held on to him. “Come with me, Dean,” he said simply. Castiel smiled, as Dean’s expression went from despair to joy in the space of a heartbeat. “It’s a big house, too big for one person really. I’ll need something to fill it with, and anyway you can entertain me when it’s too cold to go out.”

“Mr Milton,” Dean exclaimed in mock offense. “Are you suggesting that I be your kept man!”

Castiel gave him an appraising look. “I was thinking more along the lines of house boy actually. You’d look good in Indian silks. I’ll buy you some,” Castiel replied, as deadpan as ever. “But really, bring Ben, and Ellen too if she wants, I have a whole house to fill and haven’t taken on any servants yet.” He laced his fingers together with Dean’s and squeezed them.

“I suppose Bobby can supervise the repairs,” Dean said after a few minutes of silence. Castiel could see Dean’s struggle; feel the battle at the idea of ceding control to someone else, to being taken care of instead of shouldering the burdens of everyone around him. “Sure, Cas, I’ll come to London with you,” he said at last, as casually as he could manage. “Anyway, Sam said that Spring-heeled Jack has been spotted again recently, and you know, someone really needs to look into that.”

They sealed the bargain with a quick press of lips. There was no urgency, no need to hurry, there would be time enough later. Dean tipped his head, leaving their foreheads touching as he looked once more at the ashes of his home. The hurt of seeing Blackthorn like that was clear for anyone to see, Dean loved this place like it was a part of him, and now Castiel loved it too.

“You will come back with me though won’t you?” Dean asked, his perpetual mask of confidence slipping for a moment. Castiel squeezed his hand tighter and wondered when he would be able to offer Dean the reassurance he needed, promises made in the language he understood best, pressed into skin with hands and lips. “When she’s fixed?” Dean asked again, worried by Castiel’s silence. “You’ll come here and live with me, right?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel replied with a laugh, “I will.”

And Reader, that is exactly what he did.

 

**The End.**


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